


The Bollan Cross

by Maria_de_Salinas



Series: Vulnera Sanentur [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Bisexual Characters, But He Also Hates Hugs, Eventual Awkward Emotional Sex, F/M, Headmaster Severus Snape, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, POV Alternating, POV Original Character, POV Severus Snape, Severus Snape Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, Substance Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 90,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_de_Salinas/pseuds/Maria_de_Salinas
Summary: Still reeling from the death of Dumbledore, Severus Snape becomes Headmaster of Hogwarts with the aim of protecting as many students as he can. Despised, rejected, worn down by a war that seems unlikely to end well, Snape will be confronted with a dilemma: face his task alone, or turn to the only person left who trusts him, former student Graihagh Corlett, in hiding from the Death Eaters, in need of help-and very good at getting on his nerves.Sequel to Vulnera Sanentur, but it's not necessary to have read it.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore & Severus Snape, Lucius Malfoy & Narcissa Black Malfoy & Severus Snape, Original Character & Original Character, Remus Lupin & Original Female Character(s), Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Vulnera Sanentur [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987222
Comments: 60
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Vulnera Sanentur, but I've tried to include enough background that you don't need to have read it since I know gen isn't everyone's thing :) This is a WIP but I've got it outlined and I think it's going to be around 18-20 chapters. I'm hoping to update once a month or so. [edit: I'm aiming for 2-3 times a month, depending on how much writing I get done. It's ending up longer than I thought it'd be, and I'm now aiming for around 25-30 chaps.]
> 
> One more thing: the domestic violence tag is not for Graihagh and Snape
> 
> Thanks to the Snapedom for being amazing <3
> 
> And thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy it.

Snape had a lot of duties as head of Slytherin House-too many, they didn't pay him enough-but one of his most bizarre tasks was waking them up in the morning. To be sure, he didn't have to do it all that often, just when one of them consistently failed to show up to class, but it never got any less awkward.

He read over the note from Minerva two or three times just to be sure he wasn't imagining the whole thing before crumpling it up in a ball on his desk. Of course it would have to be a girl. One Astoria Greengrass, a fourth-year, who'd been skiving off Transfiguration for two weeks. He tossed the parchment ball into the fireplace and made his way to the Slytherin dormitories.

There were a few people in the common room lounging about on the sofas or bent over parchment, trying to finish last-minute essays he supposed. They looked up as he passed and went back to whatever it was they were doing without a second glance. His presence in the common room wasn't unheard of; he liked to drop in from time to time, not to sit and dole out life advice and tell them they could change the world or any such nonsense, but to check on their welfare, see how they were dealing with the strain of the war. To remind them that even though the rest of the school had written them off and their parents had their futures mapped out, they still had choices.

The dormitories were dark and quiet and Snape wondered if he wouldn't have to do anything after all, when he heard rustling and low whispers coming from the fourth-year girls' room.

Snape knocked on the door. "This is Professor Snape. You have ten seconds to make yourselves presentable."

An outbreak of shrieking, followed by the frantic rustling of fabric. Snape waited until it was quiet before he yanked door open. Miss Greengrass and five of her friends were sitting on their beds with their mouths slightly open like characters in a cartoon.

Miss Greengrass stared at him. "What are you doing here, Professor?"

"I'm here to wish you a good morning and see if you need anything," said Snape.

"Really?"

"No. Now get up, and if I see that you've slept throught Transfiguration again it's detention. It's your best subject, you have no business throwing it away."

Miss Greengrass looked genuinely ashamed. "Yes sir."

Snape knew her family. No doubt she and her sister were expected to make respectable Pureblood marriages and carry on the family line, or else don their cloaks and masks and become martyrs to the cause, no need for O.W.Ls either way, but he'd seen too many people lost that way. He gave her one last glare to show he meant business and turned to leave and he'd just reached the door when a small voice spoke up.

"Erm, Professor?"

"What is it?"

"Well, the girls' toilets are out of, erm...feminine things." Two of her friends stifled laughs behind their hands.

This wasn't purgatory. It was the ninth circle of hell.

"Very well," said Snape stiffly. "I'll have one of the house-elves refill them. Now, is there anything else?" he asked, making it plain by his expression that there had better not be.

"No sir."

Snape took care of this most unpleasant business with one of the house-elves and went to his office and ate a bag of Every-Flavour beans before heading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

He'd been teaching for sixteen years now, but his pre-class ritual never changed. He'd walk the room three or four times, going over his lines like an actor in the wings, then lean down on his desk, tapping out a rhythm against the wood to soothe his nerves. By the time his students walked into the room he'd be standing straight, brows furrowed, ready to stare them down and snuff out every challenge to his authority, because he would not be the fool. Not in front of them.

The sixth years filed in a few minutes to the hour, and there was the usual shuffling and rustling and dull thunk of books against the wooden desks. Snape's eyes darted around the room like a searchlight in a prison yard.

"Mr. Finnigan, put that away. Ms. Fawcett and Mr. Stebbins, hands above your desk. Now."

The boy was always one of the last to come in, flanked by Weasley and Granger the way he always was, limbs swaggering, face smug, black hair sticking out the back of his head. Snape wondered if he ran his hands through it the way his father had. Probably.

The thought was always surfacing in his mind.

_The boy is going to die._

Snape shoved it back down. He had to focus.

"Disillusionment Charms," he said as soon as he'd closed the door. "Now who can tell me the advantage-Miss Granger?" He didn't know why he even bothered with the disdain in his voice; in nearly six years it had done absolutely nothing to dissuade her. She was one of the brightest he’d ever taught, but he didn't see any need to tell her that, when she never lost an opportunity to show off.

"A Disillusionment Charm causes the recipient to blend in with their surroundings, effectively making them invisible," said Miss Granger in a stilted voice, like she was reciting something she'd memorized, because that was exactly what she was doing.

"And the disadvantages?"

"It's difficult to do well. Done poorly, you can still be seen. Also, it takes time to cast."

"Correct. A Disillusionment Charm is not much help when one is in immediate danger of being attacked, but it can be useful when you need to launch a surprise attack, or escape without being seen." Snape paced, around the room, staring them down, demanding their fullest attention, because they had no idea what they were facing, because most of them were too slow-witted to be any use in a duel, and this spell could be the thing that saved their lives. "Now, the incantation is simple enough. Repeat after me. _Occulo."_

_"Occulo."_

"Again. Emphasis on the second syllable. _oc-CUL-o."_

_"Oc-CUL-o."_

"Now, the wand movements are rather complex-"

The wooden door creaked and Draco walked into the room, hair lank like he'd been sweating, eyes down, face lined. He pulled his book out but didn't look at him, just stared at the wall. He was too bloody young to look like a sick old man. Snape studied him a moment, then turned back to the class.

"As I was saying, the wand movements are complex, so I want your fullest attention."

He demonstrated the movements and told them to stand up and Disillusion themselves while he wove between them making corrections, frustration mounting as not a single one of them except the Granger girl managed to fade into their surroundings. They were sitting ducks, every single one of them, but especially the Muggle-borns.

He walked over to Longbotttom, who was concentrating so hard his face was lined and had managed to make his arms fade just slightly. He was clearly capable enough, when he worked at it. Whatever Snape said would likely just break his concentration, so he walked over to Weasley, who was holding his arm up in front of Potter's face.

"...think it's a bit paler, look."

"It's as solid as your head, Weasley," said Snape from behind him. The boy started slightly and locked eyes with Potter, who scowled.

The boy's anger was more potent than any praise, any starry-eyed reverence; it set off a thrill that was almost like pleasure. He wanted him angry, wanted him scowling and sneering and yelling in his face. Let him be the who lost control, the one who made a fool of himself, while Snape stood over him the way he could never stand over his father.

"Well Potter," said Snape softly, "perhaps you could ask one of the Hogwarts ghosts for help with this spell. After all, unlike you they are _transparent_."

Potter stood up straighter opened his mouth, but Weasley put a hand to his arm and he closed it again. Snape's lips curled into a smile before he remembered.

He didn't even know.

When Snape had dismissed the class he watched Potter shove his books into his bag and walk away chatting with Weasley and Granger like ordinary teenagers with their whole lives ahead of them and _he didn't even know_.

Snape watched him so long he barely got to Draco in time.

"I'm glad to see you out the hospital wing," he said. "How are you feeling?"

Draco didn't meet his eyes, just glanced up at his forehead. Another little trick of Bellatrix's most likely, though Snape did it sometimes too, when he couldn't bear the thought of someone looking at his face.

"Fine."

"You look ill-"

"I said I'm fine. Will you please leave me alone? Sir," he added when Snape raised an eyebrow.

"As your Head of House I am responsible-"

"I told you, I don't need your help."

Draco pushed past him before he could say anything else.

Snape slammed his foot against his desk in frustration and when turned around the Parkinson girl was standing there watching him. Snape's face reddened but he started shuffling parchment as though he hadn't just been kicking furniture like an angry toddler.

"Yes?" said Snape. He noticed the way she was toying with the strap of her bookbag and knew she wasn't asking about the lesson.

"I'm sorry about-about what just happened with Draco. I wanted to thank you for what you did for him."

Snape relaxed some. He wouldn't say he was fond of the girl-he wouldn't say that about any of his students-but he liked her well enough. "Not at all."

He stood up straighter and shoved some parchment into his briefcase, but the girl made no motion to leave. Snape gave her a questioning look.

"I was just wondering if you've spoken to him much recently?"

He thought he knew where this was going. "No."

"So...he hasn't told you anything?"

"No." He looked her straight in the eye. "Has he told you anything?"

The girl made a face. "He never tells me anything anymore."

"I see. And I suppose you've noticed he's not been himself lately?"

"Yes sir." She tapped her fingers against her bag. "Sir-do you suppose it's got something to do with-" she glanced around, even though there was no one there. "With him?"

Well. The girl had to go and cut right to the chase. He shut the clasps of his briefcase, playing for time. The girl's parents weren't Death Eaters, as far as he knew, but that didn't mean the things he said wouldn't get back to the Dark Lord.

"It's possible," he said, and he wondered if the girl knew he'd been Marked. Probably. "Though if it does I don't know much more about it than you do." A half-truth, anyway. "Are you close?"

The girl's face flushed. "Sort of."

"Keep an eye on him then. You can always come to me if you have any concerns."

A dangerous invitation, but he supposed he'd just have to risk having to listen to banal teenage ramblings in exchange for information on Draco.

"Sir-are you-I mean..."

She didn't know. Draco hadn't told her, nor Crabbe or Goyle or Nott.

Something in his expression must have frightened her, because she closed her mouth. "Never mind."

"Is that all?"

"Yes sir."

She turned and left the room, and Snape was only too relieved to see the back of her.

*

Most evenings Snape holed himself away in his office but sometimes he'd go to the staffroom and pour himself a cup of tea and sit in front of the fire. Sprout might drop by with a new breed of plant to show him, or he might play bridge with Filch or talk with Flitwick or Burbage or Sinistra or someone.

He hadn't been there in weeks. Months, really. They couldn't know, they had no way of knowing, but he wondered sometimes if they caught something on his face, some guilt already written there. But maybe it wouldn't happen. Maybe they wouldn't know.

The vial was tucked away in his office, wrapped in a cloth and buried under a stack of parchment. A poison of his own making that took effect within minutes and simply stopped the heart-quick, painless, almost as peaceful as falling asleep. He could tell them the old man died naturally, tell them he'd take the credit with the Death Eaters, to maintain his cover. Maybe they'd even believe it.

When Snape had eaten his dinner he stood in the middle of the Entrance Hall, between the dungeon door and the marble staircase, as though his feet were stuck to the stones and he couldn't take another step.

The clack of shoes on the stone could only be Minerva. Her human steps were the same as her cat steps, brisk, businesslike, no-nonsense.

"There you are Severus, I didn't get a chance to speak with you at dinner. Are you headed to the staff room?"

"Well-I suppose."

Minerva gave him a sideways glance as he fell in step beside her. "I was thinking of redecorating my office, you know. I found a rather nice hutch at an antique fair in Argyll last summer. The Quidditch cup will look perfect on it."

Snape smiled in spite of himself. "I think it might a better use of your time to think about what outfit to wear with your Ravenclaw badge."

"Not bloody likely, even if my Seeker is in detention."

Minerva's eyes were warm in spite of her salty tone and Snape felt a rush of affection he couldn't stifle. No matter how much Potter might squawk about Snape’s unfair treatment, Minerva always backed him up, and it wasn't lost on him.

"Well, if you're so confident, why don't we make it double or quits?" said Snape. "If Gryffindor win, I owe you forty galleons. And when Ravenclaw inevitably win, I owe you nothing."

"You're on." She smiled. "Imagine, Slytherin not even in the running. Perhaps next year."

She didn't know. She had no idea. Snape was sick to his stomach.

"Are you alright Severus? You look like you've seen a Grim. Not that you believe in any of that bollocks, of course."

"It was nothing. I was just thinking about something."

They'd reached the staff room and Minerva pulled a bottle out of her robes and twisted the cap off. "Here," she said, pouring some into a teacup and filling the rest with hot tea. "You look like you could use this."

Snape muttered his thanks and took a long drink, sinking down deeper in his chair as the warmth spread though his body, but he fought it off, clenched his muscles tight, because he didn't deserve this, this comfort, this normalcy. But then again perhaps he should savour it, hold on to it. He sank back down again.

"Remember the end-of-term parties we used to have here?" said Minerva. "And that one year Flitwick set off all those fireworks?"

There was some comfort in dwelling on the past. He wished he could just close his eyes and live there. "My fondest memory is that Christmas you got drunk and called Lockhart a wee shite to his face."

Minerva snorted into her drink. "I'd almost forgotten about that." She stared into the space ahead of her as though reliving it, mouth turned up in a half-smile, but her eyes were serious. "Everything's different now."

And it would only get worse, and she didn’t even know.

"Severus?"

Snape sat up straighter. Minerva was looking at him rather too closely.

"You're mind is a million miles away today. Anything troubling you?"

The situation was so absurd, so hopeless, Snape almost laughed. He opened his mouth, closed it, took a long drink.

"No."

"I think we both know that's rubbish, Severus. You don't need to hide anything from me."

She was looking straight at him, spectacles were halfway down her eyes, leaning forwards slightly in her chair, the way Lily used to when he was about to tell her a secret, and he could tell her, swear her to secrecy, and Dumbledore would never know, no one would have to know. She was no fool, she must've seen his hand, must've known something. But he knew she’d go to him, want to stop it, to say goodbye to her friend.

Snape took another long drink. The Scotch would loosen his lips and he could blame that. _It just slipped Headmaster._

And what would the old man say? That it was too dangerous, too big a risk. That their plans were a house of cards and one breath, one slip of the fingers could fuck the whole thing up.

They'd all hate him eventually anyway, for one reason or another. He couldn't really understand why they didn't already. It wasn't as though he went out of his way to be friendly. Maybe they just pitied him or something.

"It's been a long week. I haven't been sleeping well."

Minerva nodded in sympathy. "Of course. Draco's attack must have shaken you."

That was true enough. He hadn't seen anyone cut open and bleeding like that in years. Not since the Corlett girl.

"It was nearly fatal."

Minerva glanced down and tapped her fingers against her cup. "He didn't know what spell did."

Snape slammed his drink down on the side table and didn’t say anything. He knew the boy didn’t have a clue, but still. That his old book should end up in his hands, that he should use it to look brilliant at potions...not like his father finding it, but close enough.

"I'm just glad you were there for him, Severus,” said Minerva over his thoughts. “And for Miss Bell. And for goodness knows how many other students over the years. I don't suppose I ever thanked you for that. But I'm doing it now."

She looked straight at him in that way she did, earnest and almost fierce.

Snape wished she hadn't said it. He murmured something indistinct and slid a finger around the rim of his glass.

He stood up and set the mug in the tray where the dirty dishes were stacked and made his way to the door. "Goodnight Minerva," he said, with a brief nod in her direction.

"Goodnight Severus. I do hope you have a restful evening."

Snape nodded, but he knew he wouldn't. He never did.

*

Severus spooned a pile of sugar into his coffee and swirled it around, scanning Great Hall for any troublemakers.

"Ready for the match, Severus?"

Snape might have found this a thinly-veiled insult, coming from most people, but Sprout's face was warm, open.

"I'm afraid I won't be going," said Snape. "I have to supervise Potter's detention."

"Ah, that's right, I'd almost forgotten." Sprout pulled her chair in and picked up her fork. "You'll have a time of it without your Seeker, Minerva."

"Oh, I'm not too worried," said Minerva with a rather smug glance at Snape. "Miss Weasley is no novice, you know."

"True enough," said Sprout. "Should be a good match."

Snape just stabbed at his back bacon.

He finished his breakfast quickly and Snape made his way to Filch’s office, a small, dimly lit room just off the Entrance Hall. Filch was hunched over his desk, piling up wooden boxes, neck muscles taut with the effort. He set the last one down with a huff and wiped his forehead, Mrs. Norris rubbing at his arm.

“Morning Professor,” he said.

“Good morning Filch.” Snape walked over to a shelf full of little wooden animals and picked one up. “An Iberian Lynx?”

“Yes sir. Just finished that one.”

Snape turned it around in his fingers. Whittled without magic, obviously, but no less skillfully done. “Very detailed.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Snape set the lynx down. “Is that all of them?”

“Yes sir. 1970-1979.”

Forty-four boxes of files for just ten years. But Snape knew perfectly well why.

“I’ll take these to my office.” He waved his wand and made the boxes small enough to fit in his hand.

“I like your thinking. Show the little beast who’s in charge and get summat useful done all in one go.”

“Indeed.”

Snape took the boxes back to his office, returning them to their usual size, and flipped through some of the files. Potter and Black and Lupin and Pettigrew, over and over and over. But the worst of it wasn't in any of those boxes.

There was a knock at the door and Snape shoved the card back into the box and let Potter inside.

"Ah, Potter."

Potter’s mouth was tight, eyes fierce, every muscle in his face straining under the effort of holding back his anger, but his face fell when he saw the boxes arranged on the table.

"Mr. Filch has been looking for someone to clear out these old files," said Snape. He repeated the instructions Filch had given him, watching him closely for a reaction.

“Right, Professor."

Snape heard the disdain in his voice, the contempt, and he liked it, welcomed it, wanted him angry, wanted to know he could. That he had that power over him.

"I thought you could start with boxes one thousand and twelve to one thousand and fifty-six. You will find some familiar names in there, which should add interest to the task. Here, you see..."

He read out the offense, something stupid and petty that might chip away at whatever mythos he'd constructed about his father and Black. He couldn’t make his father regret things they'd done. But maybe the boy would.

Snape pulled out an old mystery, listening to the scratching of Potter’s quill as he read. Sometimes he’d stop for a moment, and when Snape glanced at him he was staring down at the cards with his eyes widened, mouth thin and tight.

He was troubled, that much he knew. Maybe even ashamed. Ashamed in a way his father never had been. Maybe he wasn't like him...

Snape threw down his quill and rubbed his head and the boy glanced up at him and he was not about to let him see this, this strange sudden weakness. He narrowed his eyes at him and the boy bent back down over his cards.

His head was swimming with so many thoughts he couldn’t concentrate, and after what felt like days, he set his quill down.

“I think that will do. Mark the place you have reached. You will continue at ten o'clock next Saturday.”

"Yes sir."

Potter’s eyes were green slits the way Lily’s used to get and Snape looked away so he wouldn’t see them.

Potter marked his place and hurried away before Snape could say another word to him, and Snape stared after him, not understanding why he wanted to.

The castle was quiet, but he could see bits of red and gold confetti strewn about the Entrance Hall, and he knew Gryffindor had won the cup. He’d have to face Minerva and the others eventually, but he wanted to spend the afternoon holed up in his office away from everyone.

He flicked his wand and got a fire going and picked up the Daily Prophet he hadn’t finished at breakfast. He’d just finished a worse than useless article on personal defence when he saw the story, buried at the bottom of page B5. Thorfinn Rowle was out of Azkaban.

The girl didn’t live in Britain, but that wouldn’t stop him going after her. He’d tried it before.

He crumpled the paper and threw it into the fireplace. Everyone he’d tried to protect was marked for death, and none of them knew.

***

There was something weird about Graihagh’s bed, the mattress was bare and she didn't have a pillow, just a t-shirt stuck under her head. She wondered if she’d climbed into Milo’s bed the way she did sometimes after a nightmare, but Milo would've had an extra pillow for her, he wouldn't have just handed her a wadded up t-shirt. She opened her eyes a crack and that’s when she remembered something about a party and some man, Gavin she thought his name was, she couldn't really remember. She'd gone upstairs with him and they'd fooled around a bit but Graihagh had stopped him from going any further and he'd shoved her aside as he stood up and called her a bitch. Or at least she thought he had, she'd been throwing up at the time.

She looked down at her bare arms, too aware of her lank hair, her stale breath, the silver-white scar down her side. So open, so...vulnerable. Not a good look, but Gavin or whatever his name was probably hadn't noticed.

She rummaged around the pile of clothes on the floor until she found her top, and when she'd put it on she reached for the t-shirt she'd slept on and turned it over. The Stone Roses, 95' tour. So Gavin wasn't a complete loser, that was something.

The stairs creaked too loudly even when she walked softly, like they were announcing her quick escape to the whole bloody house, but no one was awake except for a few people in the kitchen who were crying and carrying on about something, a bad comedown probably.

She walked past them and into the lounge, stepping around the cups and wrappers and bits of rubbish that were strewn everywhere, smiling a bit when she saw a man passed out on the settee with a cock and balls drawn on his face in black ink, and when she’d reached the front door she buttoned up her coat and stepped outside.

She wasn’t really sorry to leave the place behind, but she knew she'd run into Gavin again at the Shoprite or the pub or another party somewhere. The Isle of Man wasn't a big place, and the boundaries between the wizarding world and the Muggle world were looser, more fluid than they were in the UK. The Muggles knew bugganes and little people were real, even if they couldn’t see them, and the Manx Ministry officials weren't about to swoop down on someone just for running their mouth off a bit and doing a few spells. Graihagh only wished she'd known it years ago, so she could've told her grandmother what she really was. She never did know.

The cloudy-white sky was way too bright and Graihagh squinted and shaded her eyes and tried to ignore her pounding head. Milo liked to leave the curtains drawn so their flat would be nice and dark at least.

She'd almost reached her street when she saw a flash of black disappear around a corner and she froze, every muscle rigid. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself and looked around the street, but it was quiet, empty. Probably nothing. She started walking again, faster, until she was almost running.

The flat was quiet and Graihagh practically tiptoed past Milo’s room, careful not to wake him. He was a light sleeper and it startled him sometimes when she stumbled through the door in the morning. He was as close as a brother-he _was_ her brother, that's what she told everyone, she didn't care about things like blood-and he wasn't afraid to give her hell. They didn't like the kind of parties she sometimes went to, Milo and her dad, but it wasn't like she was turning into her mother. She was careful, most of the time.

She took an aspirin and slept a few more hours, getting up with just enough time to shower and shove down a few pieces of toast before work. She only worked noon to five on Saturdays, but she wouldn't have minded going longer. She didn’t have time to think about anything else when she was bent over a cauldron making potions.

Graihagh took a deep breath every time she walked into the shop, even though she was so used to the smell she could barely detect it. Earthy, sharp, bitter, sweet, all mingling together, waiting to be turned into something powerful.

She went to the workroom in the back to hang up her coat and nodded to the shop owner, who was leaning so far back in his chair the front legs were tipped up, slicing roots and letting the shavings fall to the wood floor.

"Alright Owain?"

"'Lo," he grunted.

Graihagh liked Owain. He had a habit of eating potions ingredients and picking his teeth after and he told long rambling stories that went absolutely nowhere, but he was a skilled potioneer, and he gave her the space to create. Potion-making was as much an art as a science, he'd told her. She couldn't be expected to make her potions the same way he did.

There was no one out front, so she stayed in the workroom and looked over some order forms. St. Maugholds, the wizarding hospital, had requested some antidotes and a Blood-Replenishing solution. There was an order for Wolfsbane, and another for Veritaserum. And she and Milo needed more calming draught, not the kind usually sold in shops or given out in hospitals, but one Professor Snape had invented himself and taught her to make years ago, one that soothed her anxiety without numbing her head. She could always take something stronger, when she wanted her head numb.

Just about every potion she made she’d learned from Snape, during all the detentions she spent with him in his office, every Friday night for three and half years. They mostly worked in silence, but sometimes they'd talk about plants or techniques or famous potioneers, things they couldn't talk about so much with other people. She'd told him a bit about her family and their life in Mann, and he told her about some of the near-disasters in his potion's classroom.

Graihagh saved the Wolfsbane for last, since it was so complex, and sliced up some pomegranates for the Blood-Replenishing Solution. She’d just strained the juice when the bell on the front door chimed.

"I'll get that," she said. She washed her hands at the stone basin and went to the front counter. A shy-looking child no older than eight or nine was standing by one of the shelves, looking up.

Graihagh walked over to them and smiled. "Can I help you?"

The child mumbled something she couldn't hear.

"Sorry?"

"Do you have any Levitation Draught?" The child's voice was a breath above a whisper.

Graihagh pulled a bottle off a high shelf and when the child set it on the counter she rang it up for them. "Excellent choice, you'll have a lot of fun with this. That'll be two galleons.

They plopped their galleons on the counter and Graihagh smiled and leaned forward conspiratorially. "Three drops should do it. Any more than that and you'll be stuck to the ceiling."

The child's mouth curled into a little smile and they clutched the bottle in both hands as though afraid of dropping it.

Graihagh watched them go and walked back to the storeroom, where Owain was finishing up the Blood-Replenishing Solution. She took three deep breaths when the sharp metallic smell hit her nose, the way she'd been taught, and counted the jars on the shelves.

Without really knowing why she pictured Snape bent over his cauldron, frowning in concentration, and on a whim she reached into a drawer where she kept a few photographs and bags of sweets and pulled out a letter.

_Dear Miss Corlett_

_I received your letter informing me that you have become a Master Potioneer and I suppose I ought to congratulate you. An impressive achievement for someone who only managed two N.E.W.Ts._

_Being a Slytherin you should have good business sense. And I suppose you're not a terrible potioneer, either._

_I wish you success in your endeavors and thank you for your kind words._

_Regards,_

_Professor S. Snape_

She didn't know why she kept the letter there, maybe she'd started doing it for luck or something. She couldn't help smiling a bit whenever she read it, even if he was a terse git. She’d run into him a few times in Knockturn Alley, but he’d been preoccupied and hadn’t said much to her. She wondered how he was keeping, if he'd lightened up any since she'd last seen him. Probably not.

"If you're looking for something to do, you could get started on the Wolfsbane," said Owain over his cauldron. "I'll take care of the customers."

"Right." Graihagh pulled jars of ingredients off the shelves and set them on the table.

"Is this for someone local, d'you know?"

Owain looked up from his cauldron. "Why?"

Because everyone said werewolves were a menace, that was why, but she wasn't about to say that out loud. "Just curious."

"Doesn't matter," said Owain. "The potion makes them safe. Get to work."

"Right." Graihagh pushed the thought of werewolves aside and weighed and crushed and measured and stirred, losing all sense of time, seeing nothing but the mortar and pestle and cauldron. She didn’t know Owain had gone to the front until he called for her.

"Someone here to see you."

She didn't have a clue who it could be. She kept to herself, mostly. "Tell them I'll just be a minute. I need to finish this up."

She gave the potion three stirs and took it off the heat. It would need a few days to mature.

She washed her stirring stick and wiped down her work table and when she walked out to the front a small woman was standing on her tiptoes and studying the label on a vial of Hair-Raising Potion.

"Cate?"

Cate lowered herself but she was still balanced on the front of her feet like a runner waiting for the starting gun. "That is the stupidest thing I've ever seen, who'd want to make their hair stand on end?"

"You're not wrong, but what are you doing here?"

"I'll tell you about it in a bit, d'you want to go for drinks?"

"I’d love to. I just need to finish up here."

She dashed back into the workroom and put the jars of ingredients back on the shelves and helped Owain count out the money in the till. The moment they were finished she put on her coat and walked with Cate to a wizarding pub a few blocks away.

"I almost forgot how windy it is here," said Cate, pulling her hair back with an elastic. "You had the right idea, cutting your hair short."

"Long hair is a pain in the arse,” said Graihagh, smiling a bit, because she knew Cate remembered the utter rat's nest her hair used to be. She'd known her for years, ever since their first ride to Hogwarts, a friendship that had survived their quirks and their different houses and their misunderstandings and all the fucked up things Graihagh had done. She tried to tell herself it was just Cate’s Hufflepuff loyalty that had kept their friendship going after everything that had happened, but she knew it wasn't. Cate was too hard on herself, too quick to forgive, or she would've cut her off years ago like nearly everyone else had.

"So what are you doing here?" she said when they'd sat down. "You didn't mention you were coming."

"I thought I'd surprise you. There's this bloke over in Peel who knows all kinds of folk songs. I wanted to learn some to teach my students."

"You're teaching them Manx folk songs? I love it."

"Thought you would."

A server came by with their appetizers and beer and Graihagh watched appreciatively as Cate downed a good quarter of hers in one go. She set her glass down and wiped the froth from her mouth with the back of her hand. "We had a great time, singing and telling stories. He was dead strange, mind. Told me he got shipwrecked once and rode home on a Kraken and that his ex-wife was a succubus."

Graihagh snorted into her beer. "Merlin, I've missed you."

"So have I."

They locked eyes but Graihagh could only meet them a second before glancing away. She hadn't seen Cate much since she married the year before, and she missed her far more than she let on. But it was better for her, that she was getting on with her life.

Graihagh ate her battered mushrooms and listened as Cate chatted away about her afternoon.

"So how's everything been?” said Graihagh when she could get a word in. “How's everything with Adrian?”

"Well, he’s been getting on my case about joining the Order, but I don't know..."

"He's with the Order?"

"Yeah, just joined up. But I've always been rubbish at duelling, he knows that. I can’t see how I’d be any use to them. But...things are getting sort of bad."

Cate didn’t quite meet her eye and Graihagh could tell by the way she tapped her fingers against her glass that she knew more than she was letting on.

“What do you mean?”

“Well...I didn’t want to tell you this, but you should know. They let Thorfinn Rowle out of Azkaban.”

They couldn’t have; she had to have heard wrong. “But he had a fifteen-year sentence.”

“I know, but you know how things are. His family has a lot of influence, and anyway, it was a Muggle he went after, wasn’t it? That doesn’t count for as much as far as they’re concerned.”

“Are you sure you heard right?”

“Positive. I read it in the _Daily Prophet_ this morning.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Graihagh rubbed her forehead with one hand as it sank in. He was out there somewhere. Maybe even in the pub. Graihagh looked over the room, studying every face, hand on her wand.

Cate put a hand to her arm. “It’s ok, he can’t leave the country.”

Graihagh knew him to well to be reassured by this. And anyway, he still lived in the same country as Cate. She stood up and paced in front of their table. “Be careful. Please. He’s going to go after you, I know he will.”

“It’ll be ok, don’t worry. Adrian’s put all kinds of protections round our house. And my students usually come to me, so I don’t even have to go out much.”

Graihagh couldn’t look at her. It was her own fucking fault Thorfinn was after them in the first place.

Cate stood beside her. "Are you alright? D'you need a calming draught?"

Graihagh barely heard her. "No, it's okay. I'm fine."

They sat back down and finished their food, and the moment they were done Cate reached for her coat and threw it over her shoulders. "Listen, I have to get going, I told Adrian I wouldn't be out late and my Portkey leaves in ten minutes, but I'll send you an owl when I get home, okay?"

"Please do. I'll walk with you to the Portkey."

Graihagh put on her coat and reached into the pocket for her wand, tucking it up her sleeve. She glanced around the streets like a wary cat, but she didn't see anything out of place.

They walked through a wooded area near the River Glass until they came across a Pepsi can that was too accidental to be anything but deliberate. Cate nearly squeezed the air out of her giving her a hug.

"Be careful," she said. "It'll be alright."

“Yeah. You too.”

When Cate had vanished she walked back to her flat, hand sweaty around her wand, but it wasn't until she'd reached her street that she saw a flash of black out of the corner of her eye. She could've imagined it, it could've been nothing, just a trick of the eye, but she remembered the black figure she'd seen earlier and she knew someone was there.

She didn't have a bloody clue how to do a Disillusionment Charm, and it was her own damn fault for bombing her Defense Against the Arts O.W.L. She silently cursed herself and looked over the street, wracking her brain for some idea. She couldn't just walk up to her flat, not with someone watching her.

She walked all over the neighbourhood, ducking into a chippy even though she'd just eaten and didn't feel much like doing it again, glancing out the window every few minutes. She waited until the street was empty before running back to the flat.

She closed the door behind her and locked it, jiggling the knob a few times to make sure she'd done it right. She could hear Milo talking to his friend Fynn, who came over sometimes. He was telling Fynn about his latest commission, a board game with enchanted pieces, his voice relaxed, happy even. She wouldn't say that Milo was a different person around Fynn, just calmer, more like himself.

She sank down next to them on the settee with every intention of keeping her mouth shut, but she must've done a poor job of it because they stopped talking.

"Something wrong?" said Milo.

Graihagh didn't want to tell him, but she supposed she had to. "Thorfinn's out of Azkaban. Cate told me."

"Are you sure?"

"It was in the _Prophet_."

Milo glanced around the flat as though he might be hiding behind a piece of furniture. "Did you see anyone on the way here?

"I-maybe. I might've seen someone. I don't really know."

Milo rested his head in his hands. "This cannot be fucking happening."

Graihagh sat closer to him and stroked his back. She hated to see him like that. "I'm sorry."

Fynn looked from one to the other, nonplussed. "You mean Thorfinn Rowle?"

Graihagh glanced at Milo, who still had his head in his hands. Fynn had already left Hogwarts when the botched attack happened, and she knew Milo hadn't told them about it.

"Something happened while we were at school," she said, hoping Fynn didn't ask too many questions. "We got him expelled and he never really got over it. He tried to attack us once when we were in London. And then the little shit nearly killed Muggle and got sent to Azkaban."

"So you think he's going to come after you again?"

"Maybe. I don't know. With this war going on it would be so easy..."

Fynn put a hand to Milo’s shoulder. “Well, you know how it is with people like him. He’ll be back in Azkaban before long.”

Graihagh doubted it. “He might not if he joins the Death Eaters.”

Fynn shot her an _I can’t believe you_ look and nodded towards Milo, who looked stricken. Graihagh shut up.

Fynn leaned in so close to Milo their heads were touching."You could stay with me, if you want.” Milo didn’t say anything to this and Fynn sat up and looked at Graihagh. “I mean, you both could. I used to do security for the Ministry, I know all kinds of spells. I can put some defensive charms round my flat, Disillusion you every morning. Walk you to work and back."

Graihagh was sort of relieved at the idea, but she didn't like to be in anyone's debt, and neither, she knew, did Milo. "Yeah. We'll think about it."

Fynn squeezed Milo's shoulder and stood up. "I'll put an anti-Intruder jinx on your flat on my way out, yeah? That should help. And I could walk you to work tomorrow if you want."

"Yeah, thanks," said Milo, voice muffled by his hands.

"Try not to worry too much. It'll be alright."

Graihagh followed Fynn to the door and locked it behind them, checking the lock three times before she was satisfied. She walked over the windows and shut the curtains tight, knowing she wasn't going to sleep much that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Snape waking up the Slytherins actually came from [sparklsparklsparkl ](https://sparklsparklsparklsparkl.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, who pointed out that heads of house at boarding schools are sometimes required to do this. I wanted to work it into VS but there just wasn't a good place for it, so I put it here :)


	2. Chapter 2

The Malfoy's drawing room had been a peaceful place, between the wars. The windows faced south so the room was bright even in the winter, and Narcissa liked to leave the drapes open for the majesty palms and fanged geraniums she had growing everywhere. They'd set a few leather armchairs in front of the fire and Snape used to sit there with Lucius and Narcissa and sometimes Draco, talking and playing chess or cards. 

Lucius wouldn't have recognized it now. The Dark Lord had insisted on keeping the drapes closed and now the room was dim even in the early afternoon and Narcissa's plants were turning yellow. A long table had been conjured where the chairs used to sit and the Dark Lord sat at the head, watching them. The tension was as thick and smothering as a heat wave. Snape undid the top button on his collar as though it could relieve some of his stress. 

"So," said the Dark Lord to Snape when he’d been seated. “How is Draco getting on these days?”

The sick fuck was amused. He'd tilted his head a little to one side, snake-eyes wrinkled around the edges, the corners of his mouth turned up. That strange imitation of a smile on his uncanny valley of a face was harder to for Snape look at than a scowl would’ve been. And had to play along, pretend he was just as amused as he was.

“He’s been a bit under the weather,” said Snape, trying and failing to sound pleased. The best he could do was neutral. 

“Has he?” The Dark Lord looked straight at Narcissa, who stared back at him, her face blank and empty, but she swallowed hard, and Snape knew what it was costing her to hold everything inside. 

The Dark Lord started talking to someone else then, and Snape gave Narcissa the briefest glance, a flicker of the eyes. She looked back at him just a fraction of a second. 

"Tell me Severus," said the Dark Lord after he was finished threatening Avery about something. "What do you know about this so-called Muggle studies teacher?"

Snape didn't know what he was getting at. Surely they wouldn’t go to all the trouble of killing her, when she was only a teacher. Or he hoped not, anyway. He'd known her since he first started teaching, when she'd been a talkative round-faced third-year with a bizarre Muggle fixation, reading _Popular Mechanic_ under the table, wearing jeans to class. He must’ve given her a dozen detentions but she’d always been too wrapped up in her ideals to be afraid of him, and she hadn’t changed much since then. He wished it annoyed him more than it did. 

"As you might expect, my Lord. She is merely Dumbledore's mouthpiece."

"Filling impressionable young minds with his lies and filth, in other words," said the Dark Lord, his voice calm, almost contemplative. “But not for much longer."

He looked Snape straight in the eye and Snape looked back at him, willing himself to believe this was a good thing, to imagine the school as it would look when they took over, but all he could manage were murky images of black-robed figures looming over his students like monstrous shadows. 

The Dark Lord turned to Yaxley to talk Ministry business and Snape had to force himself to pay attention, to listen to what they were saying. Something about bribes and Confundus Charms and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, he didn’t really give a shit, he just wanted to get away. 

The Dark Lord dismissed them and without really thinking Snape stole a quick glance at Narcissa. He thought she'd look scared, shaken maybe, but she didn't. She was breathing fast and her mouth was tight and it looked as though she were swallowing back a thousand curses. She was _furious_. 

She saw him watching her and met his eyes, but he couldn't talk to her there. He stood up and made his way down the hall, nearly running into Thorfinn Rowle. 

Rowle didn't dare insult him there, not with everyone listening, but Snape could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was biting his tongue. He'd never forgiven Snape for his expulsion.

"Do watch where you're going," said Snape. He looked straight into his eyes, saw a rush of images, unfamiliar buildings and people he didn't know, but Rowle sneered and walked away before he could determine if any of them were the Corlett girl. 

Snape swept out the door and walked through the garden until he reached Narcissa's greenhouse at the far end, where the neat rows and hedges gave way to trees. He stood and waited and she emerged from behind a hedge about ten minutes later, a long hood draped over her head. She turned her head to one side and then the other, to make sure they were alone.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Is Draco alright?"

"He's fine. He was released from the hospital wing a few days ago."

Narcissa exhaled from underneath her hood. "How is he otherwise? Has he-" She glanced around her and couldn't finish her sentence.

"He refuses to speak to me," said Snape, trying not to sound accusatory. If Narcissa had her way the boy would've told him everything. "But he doesn't look well."

Narcissa let out a low hissing noise that might've been a _shit_. "This is insane, Severus. He's sixteen. That cold-hearted bas-"

Snape held up a hand. "Be careful, Narcissa. This is not the place."

Narcissa glanced back at the Manor as though its windows were eyes, watching them. "I know, I know. I'd better go, but Severus, please." She put a hand to his arm. "Please, whatever you do, keep him safe."

"You do remember that my life depends on it."

Narcissa gave him an acerbic smile. "Well, then I suppose you'll keep him safe or die trying, won't you?"

Only Narcissa could deliver a threat with such grace. Snape smiled slightly. "Something like that."

Narcissa played her cloak between her hands. "Do you suppose-do you think he'll allow Lucius to come home?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think you could persuade him? I mean-you'll have so much credit with him when-"

Snape cut across her so he didn't want to hear whatever it was she was about to say. "I could try."

"Thank you," said Narcissa. She started and glanced behind her as though she'd heard a sudden noise. "I'd better go. Look after Draco."

She hurried back to the manor and Snape walked to the gates, his mind on his books and his fireplace and a pile of Mars Bars but no, he wouldn’t be allowed any rest, he had to report directly to Grimmauld Place. At least Black wasn’t around anymore. 

But Lupin was, for the first time in months. There was an empty chair next to him but Snape made a point of looking for another one and a good half-minute had passed before he bowed to the inevitable and sat down next to him, turning his body away even though it meant facing away from Dumbledore. 

"Ah, Severus," said Dumbledore as he adjusted himself in his seat. "Now that you're here, we can begin the meeting. 

Snape noticed he'd pulled the sleeve of his deep blue robes over his burnt hand so it was barely showing, so as not to remind them maybe, not to show them how bad it'd gotten. Never the whole truth, that was Albus. 

"Any new business?" said Dumbledore when the the usual formalities had been performed. 

"Greyback is meeting with some resistance," said the werewolf, running a hand through his hair. His face was lined and he had a fresh cut on his left cheek. "There's a lot of revulsion towards him at the moment."

"Good, very good," said Dumbledore. "See if you can persuade the others to join us."

Lupin nodded, but the lines on his face deepened and Tonks' head jerked towards Dumbledore as though she wanted to object. Snape didn't care much. Lupin wasn't in any more danger than he was, and Tonks' infatuation was foolish. 

"Severus, any new business?"

"The Death Eaters continue to infiltrate the Ministry. Yaxley has been bribing members of the Law Enforcement Squad. He's attempting to get close to Thicknesse."

"Which would explain why they've been a bit lax with suspected Death Eaters lately," Tonks added, scowling. 

"Indeed," said Dumbledore. "I think we must prepare ourselves for the possibility that they could take over the Ministry entirely." 

A certainty, more like, and Dumbledore knew it, but no one else did, judging by the concerned muttering that broke out around the table. Molly and Arthur locked eyes and Tonks let out an indignant huff. 

"Then it's only a matter of time before they try to interfere at Hogwarts again," said Minerva, voice strained and thin. "Can you imagine? Another Umbridge, or worse?"

"It is a possibility," said Dumbledore.

Snape gripped the table so hard his knuckles were white. But he didn't say anything.

Molly invited everyone to the Burrow for dinner, but Snape declined as he always did. He'd just reached the safety of the front hallway when Lupin called his name, the prat. He pretended not to hear him.

"I think Remus would like a word," said Minerva. She gave him a strange look, as though he must be losing his hearing because no one could possibly be that big of an ass. 

"What is it Lupin?" said Snape. "I'm in a hurry."

Lupin smiled apologetically, but he clearly wasn't feeling sorry enough not to talk to him because he opened his mouth anyway. "It's been a long time since I've seen you. I was just wondering how you're doing these days. I suppose all this undercover work has got me thinking about how difficult it must be for you. "

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously suggesting that reporting directly to the Dark Lord is in any way equivalent to running about with a pack of werewolves?"

Lupin looked taken aback and Snape could've sworn he saw a trace of anger in his eyes. He wished he'd get wound up the way Black had, that he'd lose control, but the lines on his face smoothed and his mouth lifted up in that insufferably mild-mannered smile of his that seemed worn into his face by habit. The one he wore like a mask.

"Well, there are certain similarities, wouldn't you say?"

Snape said nothing to this, just stared him down. Lupin backed away. 

"Well, I won't keep you," he said, and without another word to him Snape turned and left.

Minerva was waiting for him outside the Hogwarts gate. 

"I could do with a hot drink after all that, how about you?" 

Snape made a murmur of agreement and they walked to the castle in silence, Snape fighting the urge to say something every step of the way. Minerva led them to the staff room and poured them each a glass of tea and they sank in their chairs and stared at the fire. 

"Do you think there's really a chance the Death Eaters could take over the Ministry?" said Minerva when she'd taken a long drink.

"That's certainly their aim."

Minerva let out an angry hiss and the air around her seemed to crackle in indignation. "Well, I'll be damned if they take over Hogwarts. So long as we stick together we can manage anything they throw at us." She gave Snape a dry smile. "Makes you wish the Weasley twins were still here, doesn't it?"

Snape wished he could've made some sardonic reply like he might have before, but he all he could do was force through a smile he didn't feel, a nervous twitch of the lips. He stared into the fire, the silence no longer comfortable. He supposed he ought to say something to break the tension, but he had no idea what. 

He was spared by the appearance of Professor Burbage, who poured herself a cup of tea and sat down in an old armchair with a bit of stuffing poking out the side, and it was as though a cold wind had died down. The temperature of the room seemed to rise a few degrees.

"Nice badge, Professor," she said. "Red and gold look good on you." 

Snape glanced down at his robes and only then did he realize he'd forgotten to take off the Gryffindor badge. He thought Lupin had been smirking at him at the meeting. He was damn lucky he'd been wearing his traveling cloak at Malfoy Manor. 

Professor Burbage must've noticed the sour look on his face, because she gave him a placating smile. "That's such a fun tradition you all have, maybe I'll have to get in on it." 

Her face was so sincere, so open, he couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed with her. "Of course none of us are likely to be wearing Hufflepuff badges any time soon," he said. "Or ever."

"That's as good him saying he likes you, you know," said Minerva. "He doesn't take the time to insult just anyone."

Professor Burbage laughed, but Snape was uneasy, and he only half-listened to them as they began to chat about the Hufflepuff Quidditch team. He wanted to do something, say something, but telling her straight out was a death sentence, if the Dark Lord ever looked into her mind. 

"I've heard there are openings at Ilvermorny," he said when there was a lull in the conversation. "Didn't you say once that you've always liked America?"

Professor Burbage looked surprised. "Oh, I do. But I'm enjoying Hogwarts so much. I can't imagine leaving."

"You might not get another chance for awhile. I've heard they're much more...tolerant."

"That's what I've heard. But it seems to me all the more reason to stay here. There's so much work to be done, do you know what I mean? Especially with this war going on."

Ever the starry-eyed optimist. She had no idea what was coming, what was happening even now. 

"Perhaps the war is all the more reason to go."

He was looking her straight in the eye and perhaps she sensed something, some urgency in his voice, because he could've sworn he saw a flash of understanding in her face.

"That's very kind of you to let me know about this, but I think I'm needed here."

Snape heard the finality in her voice, the beginnings of indignation. He wondered if she'd leave even if she did know. Maybe not. High-minded people like her rarely did. 

They sat and talked some more, but Snape wasn't really paying much attention and after awhile he stood up and excused himself. He was walking through the Entrance Hall when he met Dumbledore coming the other way, in his dressing gown and slippers. 

"Retiring for the evening?" he said in his relentlessly pleasant way.

Snape just looked at him stupidly, because what else would he be doing at this time of night? Then he remembered.

"Actually, there is something I wished to speak with you about, Headmaster."

"And what would that be, my dear Severus?"

"I have reason to believe Professor Burbage may be in danger."

Dumbledore's expression changed, and Snape saw how tired he was. "I thought that might be the case. I suppose I could let her go at the end of term, although there's no guarantee she'd leave the country."

"There are a few teaching posts open at Ilvermorny. I doubt they'd pursue her that far."

"Perhaps not. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Severus. I don't know why I didn't think of it before."

Snape nodded and shifted on his feet, thinking of his fireplace and his books. 

"Ah, I almost forgot," said Dumbledore just as he started walking away. "I wondered if you'd like to accompany me to a concert on Saturday evening?"

Snape was taken aback by this. They dined together sometimes and went for long walks in the grounds, but it wasn't very often he asked Snape to accompany him outside of Hogwarts. He'd go with Elphias or Minerva or maybe Flitwick. 

"I-yes, I suppose I could."

"Excellent. It's a wizarding venue, so no need to wear a suit. You have dress robes I presume?"

"Yes," said Snape, although he hadn't worn them since the Yule Ball and had no idea where they were.

"Good, good. Meet me here on Saturday evening, say around half past six?"

Snape murmured his agreement. "Goodnight, Headmaster.

"Goodnight, Severus."

Dumbledore took a few steps towards the staircase, then stopped. "Ah, my memory nearly left me again. I found this at Flourish and Blotts today. I thought perhaps you might like it." He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a book.

Snape took it. The cover was bound in leather and covered with designs of birds and trees in gold leaf. _An Anthology of Poems_.

He grew a bit hot around the neck. He didn't realize anyone knew about his poetry habit. 

"Thank you, Headmaster," he said. He slipped the book into his pocket. 

"I think you may find them useful," said Dumbledore.

Snape wondered if there was some sort of secret code hidden in them or something. He nodded and walked away.

When he'd reached his room he set the book down and took his boots off, but instead of sinking into his chair he rummaged around in his wardrobe until he found a set of plain black dress robes bunched up in a corner. Probably they’d fallen off the hanger, or maybe he’d thrown them there after the Yule ball, when his mind had been full of Karkaroff and the mark on his arm.

He smoothed them out with his hands and draped them across the back of his armchair, but they still lay in a wrinkled heap and he supposed he'd have to iron them out with some sort of charm, if he could remember how to do it. 

He couldn't care less how he looked most of the time. But he'd dress up for Dumbledore, just this once.

*

Snape ate an early dinner on Saturday and went straight to his room to bathe and put on his dress robes, sparing his reflection only the briefest glance. He draped his traveling cloak around his shoulders, fastening it with a silver serpent, and walked up the stairs to the Entrance Hall. He'd almost reached the front doors when he stopped short and stared. Dumbledore was dressed from head to foot in robes bright yellow and red and blue, made of some iridescent material that made him look like an overgrown Snow-Cone. He was long past the point of caring what anyone thought of him, and Snape couldn't help but respect him for it.

"I think you'll enjoy this, Severus," said Dumbledore as they walked to the Hogwarts gates. 

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"To the wizarding district in Edinburgh. There's a concert hall there I'm rather fond of. The acoustics are phenomenal."

Snape said no more and when they reached the gates they spun into the night air. When they stopped spinning they were standing in a quiet cobblestone street he didn't remember all that well. He'd only been there once, on some errand with Minerva. 

They walked into the hall and Snape looked through the program notes they'd been given. Mahler's Symphony No. 6. He wasn't familiar with this one. 

"I think you'll enjoy this, Severus," was all Dumbledore said.

The first movement flew off the stage with a frantic intensity, sweet and almost rapturous at times, but there was something dark underneath, some sense of loss and impending doom. As though his own life were being played out in music. Snape was on the edge of his seat, growing more and more uneasy, and then-

The thud of an enormous hammer echoed through the hall. Snape jumped in his seat, gripping the armrest so hard his fingers hurt. When he'd recovered himself a bit he adjusted his robes and glanced around to see if anyone had noticed, but they all seemed enthralled with the music.

But still. The whole thing was unnerving, like some dark omen. He tapped his fingers against his armrest but his chest was tight and he couldn't draw in a deep breath. He rose from his seat and left the hall, pacing back and forth on the stone steps out front. 

He thought Dumbledore would want to stay and finish out the piece, but Snape caught a snatch of music as the doors opened and Dumbledore stood at the top of the steps.

"Did something upset you, Severus?"

"I'm not-I didn't-it was that bloody hammer." 

"Ah," said Dumbledore. 

They stood in silence awhile. Snape could hear a low thrum from the hall.

"Well, I suppose I could stand here and give you words of reassurance," said Dumbledore. "But we both know they're hollow. An extraordinarily difficult time lies ahead of you, no use pretending that it doesn't."

Somehow this bleak assessment was more reassuring than any soft-spoken words of encouragement would've been. He stopped in his pacing and studied the pattern of light on the stones. 

"I do regret that it had to be this way, Severus."

Snape didn't know what to say to that. Did he really? Or was everything going exactly as planned? Or was it both?

"I think Lily would have been very proud of you-"

Snape started at the sound of her name. "Don't!"

"But it's true, Severus-"

"I told you to stop! You think I'm doing this for some sort of glory...playing the hero..."

Snape was hot in the face, tripping over his words. He didn't know, no one knew. There was no glory, no heroism in this, this atoning for his own colossal fuckup. He stared the old man down, scowling. 

"My apologies, Severus," he said, and there was no defensiveness in his voice, no heat. He looked at him a long time. "We're really not so different, you know."

Snape remembered something from a long time ago, Dumbledore's parents and brother and sister looking back at him from a mirror. He stared at the old man.

_Don't make me do it._

Dumbledore looked back at Snape, and his eyes were sombre. The music played on behind them. 

***

Graihagh was lying on the stones and Snape was singing to her.

_Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur._

He reached out to touch her face but just as he got to her his skin was slashed with an invisible sword and the blood poured from his open wounds. Graihagh opened her mouth but nothing would come out.

She forced her eyes open and looked around her room to get the images out of her mind, taking in every small detail, every poster on the wall, every plant along the shelves. She'd been having that same dream for years and she hated it, except for the song. That part she loved.

She could hear the clink of dishes from the kitchen and she glanced at her clock. Quarter to the hour, she might as well get up. 

She went through her usual morning routine-a long shower, a comb through her hair, a bit of mascara and eyeliner. When she'd put on her work robes and checked her reflection in the mirror she opened her top drawer and pulled out the bollan cross that had been left to her when her granny passed. To someone who didn't know what it was it didn't look like much, just a rough, lumpy bone from the mouth of fish, but there was magic in it, everyone said. Her great-grandfather had taken it with him when he went out to the fishing, and after he’d passed her granny took it with her everywhere. Said it warded off bad luck, helped her find her way home when she was lost. Graihagh had a knack for losing things so she'd always kept it tucked away where it'd be safe, but lately she'd taken to carrying it with her wherever she went. Maybe it'd help, she didn't know.

She had a cup of tea and a bowl of cornflakes with Milo and when they were finished they stood by the door and waited for Fynn.

Three weeks on, and Graihagh still hadn't managed a Disillusionment Charm. The most she could do was make herself fade slightly, which was useless when going round Muggle Douglas, since she couldn't exactly walk around half-transparent. Milo's attempts were better but he couldn't do it as well as Fynn could, and it worried him. Sometimes they'd hear a sudden noise or feel that skin-prickling sense of being watched and they knew whoever it was following them was still around. They stayed in their flat mostly, only leaving to go to work or get groceries or visit with Graihagh's dad and stepmum. Sometimes Fynn walked with them. 

She couldn't focus on her work that day. Twice she added the wrong ingredients to her potions and had to start over. 

"You're as twitchy as a kneazle," said Owain when the bell over the front door sounded and she jumped. "And you've been bungling your potions all day. What's wrong?"

"I'm fine. I've just had a lot on my mind lately, that's all. I'll go and take care of the customers."

She put her pestle down and washed her hands and when she walked to the front of the shop Cate was there, looking more serious than she'd seen her in a long time.

Graihagh stood beside her. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, I just really need to talk to you."

Graihagh glanced at the clock; it was nearly closing time. "Why don't you wait here and I'll meet you in a few minutes."

Graihagh hurried through the cleanup so haphazardly she smashed her pestle and knocked over a jar of pickled echidna eggs. Owain barked at her to clean it up and told her to shove off before he fired her, but just as she was leaving he put a hand to her shoulder. "Get some rest," he said. "You look like you could use it."

"I will."

She met Cate at the front door. "Do you want to go for drinks or something?" She felt safer, somehow, in a busy pub than she did in her own flat. Not much chance of him shooting a curse at her in the middle of a crowd. 

"Actually I was thinking we'd talk in private," said Cate, and Graihagh heard something in her voice, some strained mixture of fear and excitement that made her uneasy. 

Graihagh looked up and down the street but didn’t see anything unusual. “Do you know how to do a Disillusionment Charm?"

"Probably not, it's been ages since I've done one." She glanced at Graihagh and she must've seen how nervous she looked. "But it couldn't hurt to try, could it?" She tapped her wand to them and Graihagh thought she felt a little something, it was hard to tell. She looked down at her arms and saw that they hadn't faded much. 

"Well, let's just walk really fast."

They took the streets at a brisk walk, Graihagh glancing around every few seconds, but she didn't think she saw anyone. They went inside the flat and Graihagh locked the door behind them. 

Graihagh sat down but Cate stayed standing, pacing back and forth on the rug. "I'm thinking of joining the Order."

"What?"

"Well, they really need more members and Adrian's already in, so..."

Graihagh didn't know what to say to this. She wouldn't say Cate was unskilled, exactly, but she couldn't see her keeping up with the rest of them. 

"I wouldn't be duelling Death Eaters or anything like that. I think it'd just be behind the scenes work like recruiting and getting the word out and that sort of thing. I was wondering if you'd join with me?"

Graihagh felt trapped, desperate not to let Cate down, and even more desperate not to join.

"I don't know..."

"You wouldn't have to fight. You could do behind the scenes work with me, make potions or something."

Graihagh stood up and wrung her hands. She already had a target on her back. If the Death Eaters found out she was in the Order, she was completely fucked. 

"I can't."

Cate's face fell and she stopped pacing. "Why not?"

Because she was bloody terrified, that was why, but how could she admit that? "I just-I can't."

"Can't you think about it at least?"

Graihagh couldn't understand why she was so insistent. "Do you really want to join though? Or is Adrian pressuring you?"

She'd meant it to be gentle, tactful, but she must've hit a nerve. Cate's eyes flashed.

"Of course I want to join. Maybe you haven't noticed, being here, but things are getting worse every fuckin day. There've been people disappearing, buildings collapsing, children being attacked. And we're just going to sit on our arses and not do anything about it?"

“Are you saying I don’t care?”

"Well, I don't know, it seems that way. You've never really paid much attention to what's been going on."

Cate was right, she hadn't been. She'd always thought of it as a British war, something that didn't affect her. 

She walked towards the window as though she could somehow get away from everything Cate was saying. "Look, I just don't know."

"Didn't you always say you wanted to do something big?"

"That was a long time ago."

Graihagh stood and looked out the window, trying not to remember, but she couldn't forget. She never stopped thinking about what happened.

Cate came up behind her and put an arm around her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know this is all sort of spur of the moment. I understand if you don't want to. I wouldn't have asked, it's just..." she sighed. "I'm so scared. I thought maybe if you were with me..."

So that was why she wanted her. Because she was just as scared as Graihagh was, and yet there she was, still willing to join up. 

Graihagh wanted so much to turn around, rest her head against Cate's, but she kept looking out the window. "Look, I'll think about it okay?"

Cate let out a long breath and squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks, Graihagh.”

Graihagh felt a rush of guilt she couldn't explain. She turned around but didn't meet her eye. “Milo and I are meeting dad and Emma for dinner,” she said, to change the subject. “They’d love to see you.”

Cate’s face fell. "I'm sorry, I really can't, my Portkey leaves soon." 

“But you just got here.”

“I know, I’ve had a lot going on.”

That seemed likely enough, knowing her, but something didn’t feel right. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” said Cate, so quickly that Graihagh wondered if she’d been expecting her to ask. “I’m fine, just busy.” She kissed Graihagh’s cheek. “I’ll send you an owl when I get home, alright?”

“Yeah. Please do. And be careful.”

“I will.”

Graihagh watched out the window as Cate walked down the street, and she was still standing there when Milo walked in.

“Alright?” he said, taking off his shoes. 

“Same as always,” said Graihagh, trying to sound offhand. “Fynn walking us to dad’s then?”

“Yeah, they should be here in a bit.”

Milo changed out of his work robes and they waited by the door, not saying much. She could tell by the way Milo kept glancing at her that he knew something was wrong, but to her relief he didn’t ask, and a distraction soon arrived in the form of Fynn.

"Ready to go?" they said when they'd showed up at the door. Milo nodded.

Fynn's forest green robes were faded but their long hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail and they had on a stylish dragonhide choker. Milo had mentioned once that they'd some trouble finding work, something neither she nor Milo minded in the slightest. That was all she really knew about them, that and they were a Quidditch fanatic like MIlo.

"So have you thought about staying with me?" said Fynn when the three of them reached her dad’s house. They’d stepped into the back garden to lift Disillusionment Charms without being seen. 

Graihagh glanced at Milo, who avoided looking at both of them. 

"We're still thinking about it," he said.

"It'd make things a lot easier on you. And it's really no problem."

"I know. Thanks, yessir."

It warmed her some, hearing this bit of Manx slang. Milo had lived on the island with her since they left Hogwarts, and it was like he'd always been there. 

Fynn clapped Milo on the shoulder and left out the back gate. 

Milo glanced at the fence to make sure Fynn was out of earshot. "Do you think they mean it? Staying with them?"

"I don't see why not. They don't seem the type to make an offer like that if they don't mean it."

Milo was red around the ears and Graihagh gaped at him. "You fancy them, don't you?"

"What? No." But he'd said it much too quickly.

"Oh come on, you can't hide anything from me. I take it you haven't told them?"

"No, and I don't want you saying anything either. It'll just make things awkward."

"You don't think they feel the same way?"

"I doubt it."

“Are you serious? Have you seen the way they look at you? They'd shag you six ways from Sunday if you let them.”

Milo punched her shoulder. "They look that way at everyone."

"You're being way too hard on yourself."

Milo nodded towards the back door. "Are we going inside or are you going to stand out here and be a pain in my arse?"

Graihagh knew it would be useless to press him any further. She turned the door handle. "Love you too, you little cunt," she said, ducking through the door before Milo could land another punch to her shoulder. 

She locked the door behind them and went into the kitchen, where her stepmum was setting the table. 

She looked up at them and smiled. "Go ahead and sit down if you like. Your dad'll be right down."

Graihagh smiled back and sat down next to Milo. Her stepmum was a nice woman who'd eased into their lives without much friction, and Graihagh was fond of her. She just couldn't explain why it bothered her so much that she wasn't her mother, when she wasn't even supposed to like her mother. 

Her stepmum knew all about the wizarding world. They'd sat her down the day after the wedding, Graihagh's dad nervously running his hands through his hair while Graihagh had the talk with her. She'd been upset at first, thinking they were taking the mickey because she left bread outside for the little people and had a thing for fairy houses, but when she realized they weren't joking she'd turned into a kid at Christmas, asking Graihagh a thousand questions and squealing when she showed her a water-making charm. But she didn't know the things Graihagh had done with her magic. 

Her stepmum sat down across from her and poured herself a glass of water. "So how are things at your shop?"

“Busy. I got ten orders for Hair-Growth potion today." 

"Sounds like something I could use, d'you think my hair looks a bit thin?” She tipped her head down and held out a strand of hair.

Now that she mentioned it, it did look a bit thinner, but she’d never tried any of her potions on Muggles. “Er-looks good to me.”

Her dad came into the dining room and squeezed her shoulder before he sat down.

"So how's your week been?"

"It was alright," she said, which wasn't true at all, but she wasn't ready to break the news just yet. 

"How about you, Milo? Work going alright?"

"Yeah, not bad" said Milo, and Graihagh knew he was thinking the same thing.

Her dad cut up a lamb chop. "We hired another mechanic at the shop," he said, and Graihagh wondered why his face was so red. "She's about your age and she's, you know..." He lowered his eyes and cleared his throat and Graihagh couldn't help smiling, because she knew how far he'd come, that he could even suggest it. 

"She's a flaming homosexual you mean?" she said. She delighted in this, saying the words out loud without any embarrassment whatsoever. Her stepmum chortled over a mouthful of mash and a bit of it hit Graihagh's face.

"Er...anyway, she's dead friendly," her dad went on. "And you know, responsible."

"I don't know if she's really my type," said Graihagh. The last woman she'd been with had been friendly and responsible and all that, and things had only lasted a few months. She'd gotten frustrated one day, told Graihagh she was impossible to know. Inscrutable, she called her.

Her dad put down his fork and rubbed the back of his neck and Graihagh could feel his confusion, his disappointment, his fear that she'd become an embarrassment after all the times he'd stood up for her. 

Graihagh was so keen to break the tension that her news about Thorfinn nearly came flying out of her mouth. But her stepmum beat her to it.

"There's something I've been wanting to tell you."

Graihagh's dad recovered himself and smiled in a self-concious sort of way and she knew what was coming before her stepmum had said a thing. 

"We're going to have a baby. At the end of November."

"Congratulations," said Milo.

Graihagh set her fork down and glanced at her dad, who was grinning now. So. He'd finally have a kid who wasn't a fuckup, with a woman who wasn't a fuckup. Who went to ordinary schools and did ordinary things and lived an ordinary life and didn't put them all in danger.

"Wow. That's-congratulations."

Her dad knew she wasn't thrilled, she could tell by the way his smile faltered. But her stepmum didn't notice. 

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you before, but it's a bit risky at my age and we've had a few losses. I wanted to be sure."

"Oh yeah, I understand. Yeah, that's mighty. Congratulations."

She felt her dad watching her, worried she'd ruin the moment maybe, and shot him an apologetic glance and picked up her fork. She pushed her peas and mash around her plate as her stepmum chatted away about nursey decorations. She wanted a magical theme, which Graihagh supposed was a compliment, but she only half-listened. By the time they'd finished eating and sat in the lounge awhile she was tired and didn't feel much like walking home in the dark. She could tell by the way Milo kept glancing out the window that he didn't either.

"Is it alright if we stay here tonight?" she said.

"Of course," said her dad. "You don't need to ask. Either of you." 

She and Milo used to stay often enough they still had some spare clothes and things there, so after Graihagh had congratulated them again and said goodnight and they went upstairs to get ready for bed.

Her granny's old room was right across from hers and she could picture the way it'd looked when they'd moved her in, the floral-print bedding and houseplants and the bizarre antiques she'd picked up over the years. Graihagh liked to imagine she was still there, sleeping or doing a crossword puzzle and waiting for Graihagh to bring some tea and bonnag so they could sit and share the skeet. She hadn't been in there since she'd passed, never even opened the door. Milo had slept there a few times but didn't like it, said it didn't feel right. He slept on the settee when he stayed over. 

She was sitting on the edge of her bed in her pyjamas when there was a knock at the door and she heard her dad’s voice. “Can I come in?” 

"Yeah."

Her dad came into the room but he didn't sit beside her, just stood awkwardly against her chest of drawers. Never a good sign. 

"I get the feeling maybe you're not happy about our news."

"No, I am, really. I was just surprised, that's all."

She knew perfectly well her dad didn't believe this. “Emma thinks very highly of you, you know. Talks about you all the time.”

“What, you think I don’t like her?”

Her dad absently picked up a comb and played it in his hand. “Not exactly. You just haven’t spent much time with her, is all.”

Graihagh didn't know how to explain that it was precisely because she liked her that she didn't want spend time with her. 

Her dad set down the comb. "I've heard you've been going out quite a bit lately."

He went quiet but Graihagh heard every word he didn't say. _Everyone knows you hang round with burnouts, why are you embarrassing me, you'll turn into your mother if you don't stop._

"Yeah, well, not so much anymore."

Her dad looked at her expectantly, probably waiting for her to tell him that she'd been doing a lot of soul-searching and had decided to quit drinking and start mentoring at-risk youth or something, when the real reason was something far less inspirational. 

"Thorfinn Rowle is out of Azkaban. I think he's been following me."

Her dad let in a sharp breath and sat down next to her. "Are you sure? Can't you do anything about it? Contact your ministry?"

"I don't know. Technically he's not supposed to leave the UK, but with this war that's going on everything's a mess." She rubbed her forehead and looked back up at him. "Listen, I don't know if he knows who you are but be careful, please. Keep your doors locked, watch for intruders, tell me if you see anything suspicious. Promise?"

"I will, don't worry. Just be careful. I don't want anything happening to you."

"I'll be careful.”

They sat in silence awhile and Graihagh picked at her nails. “You won’t tell Emma why he’s after me, will you?”

“I’ve told her you were attacked-”

“But you didn’t tell her why, did you?”

Her dad sighed. “Graihagh, that was years ago. You made a mistake, that’s all. I’m a lot more worried about the people you’ve been hanging round with, to be honest...”

“She doesn’t know about that either, does she?”

Her dad sighed again. “She knows a bit. Not all of it.”

Graihagh didn’t say anything to this, an they were quiet awhile.

"I remember when you were born," said her dad. "You were a tiny thing. But you had a set of lungs on you. You were the loudest baby in the ward."

He stared into the space in front of him, remembering. "God, I was just a kid, really. Your mum too. I'm just glad you're granny was there, we didn't have a clue."

"Helped you out a bit, did she?"

Her dad let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't know if you'd be here if it hadn't been for her. We probably would've let you crawl around starkers and put Coca-Cola in your bottle."

Graihagh raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. "You mean you didn't? I'm impressed."

Her dad smiled and went quiet again.

"Sometimes I wonder if I did the right things..."

Graihagh looked him straight in the eye. "Don't. You did amazing." _It's not your fault I turned out the way I did._

She wondered if he'd been thinking the same thing. But when he stood up he squeezed her shoulder. "'Night Graih. I love you."

"Love you too."

Graihagh turned out the light and got under the covers but tired as she was, she couldn’t fall asleep.

She wondered how much Thorfinn knew about her family, if he was watching them even now. There was no way she could join the Order, not with all their lives at stake. 

But Cate had always been there for her, talking her down from her panic attacks, taking care of her when they went out and she got messed up, telling her she wasn’t a bad person. Here was her chance to pay her back for some of it, to make up for what she’d done.

She and Thorfinn and Milo hadn't planned to go after Cate. But she was the one who would've died, and Graihagh never stopped thinking about it.

She curled up on her side and pulled at her hair until her eyes watered, but there was no release. She got up and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

She doubted her dad had ever taken a sleeping pill in his life, but maybe Emma did, maybe she even had some of the good shit. She rummaged around in the medicine drawer but all she found was a box of asprin, a bottle of antidepressants and some prenatal vitamins. 

She went back to bed and stared at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making more progress on this story than I thought I would, so it looks like I'll be able to update more often (for now!) I think I'm going to switch to updating on weekends.
> 
> The next chapter is going to be a little different-it's going to be entirely from Sev's POV and it'll be pretty short. I should have that up in the next week or two.
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

Snape looked up over the top of his book, just for a second so they boy wouldn’t know. He didn’t know why he kept doing it. He was in the middle of a mystery, a good one, and Potter was elbow deep in cards and boxes, not much chance of him doing anything stupid.

He’d been keeping him later and later and he didn’t know why. Maybe because there was some strange comfort in their routine. In their shared hatred. In the way time just dragged on and on, as though he’d stopped the inexorable march towards their own deaths, or at least slowed it down awhile.

He finished the book and shifted in his seat, but he’d been sitting there so long he was sore. No matter what position he sat in he couldn’t get comfortable, and Potter kept glancing out the window. He supposed it was time to quit.

“That is all for today,” said Snape. “You may go.”

Potter muttered something under his breath and shoved the cards into the box. Snape pretended not to hear him. He slipped his book into his pocket and watched him walk away. That bloody image kept surfacing in his mind, the boy being chased up a tree while his own relatives stood underneath and laughed at him. He pushed it away.

But he couldn't forget that the boy was being lead to his own slaughter.

Snape put his book away and went up to dinner but he was so deep in his thoughts he ran straight into Minerva.

"Do watch where you’re going, Severus,” she said. She looked him over. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine."

Minerva gave him a wry smile. “Detention with Potter getting you down? I swear, Severus, if you make his detentions any longer you may as well have him move in there.”

Snape had a most unpleasant vision of Potter in his pyjamas, asking if he had any spare pillows.

“Well, perhaps a game of cards would cheer you up?" said Minerva. "We’re meeting in the staff room after dinner."

"I suppose I could."

And so after he'd finished his dinner and stopped a few troublemakers from setting of Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-bangs in the Entrance Hall, he walked into the staff room and sat down between Sprout and Flitwick.

He ate some crisps and drank Hagrid's dandelion wine and won a few rounds , but he couldn't stop the feeling that they had already left him.

*

Snape murmured the password to the Slytherin common room and walked inside. The atmosphere was much more strained than he liked to see. The Slytherins kept up their show of unity to the rest of the school, but a good quarter of them were firmly against the Death Eaters, a few of them even Muggle-born. They'd taken to sitting together, walking together in packs, away from the likes of Parkinson and Zabini and Nott, who were sitting in the best places by the fire.

Snape knew before he even entered the common room that Draco wouldn't be there.

He cleared his throat to get their attention and the room fell silent.

"Has anyone seen Mr. Malfoy?"

Parkinson and Zabini locked eyes and Nott looked nervously about the room.

"I haven't seen him sir," said Zabini.

"What about Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle?"

"I saw them at dinner," said Miss Parkinson. "But I haven't seen them since."

Because they were with Draco, of course.

"Very well," said Snape. "If you see him let me know immediately." He stared at them a moment, then left the room.

Snape had been tailing Draco long enough to know where he was going. That room, the one he'd snuck off to with Mulciber and Avery and Regulus all those years ago, the one where he'd found the mirror his third year teaching.

He took the stairs almost at a run, even though he knew there wasn't much chance of getting in there. He'd been trying for months without any success.

The back of his neck prickled. There was something different about this night, he could feel it.

He heard the brisk clack of boots along the stones and he turned to see Tonks striding down the corridor, her face tired, serious, resolute.

"What are you doing here?" said Snape, getting straight to the point.

Tonks raised her eyebrows. "Always the friendly one, aren't you? Professor Dumbledore sent for me."

Snape reached for his wand on instinct, the way he might reach up to scratch his nose. "What's going on?"

"Nothing serious. He just wanted extra security. Said he'd be away from the school awhile."

Snape let go of his wand and swept down the corridor.

"Toffee eclairs," he muttered, and the stone gargoyle stood aside. He took the moving steps at a run, not stopping til he'd reached Dumbledore's office.

There was no sound but the gentle whirring and huffing of his instruments. The desk chair was empty. He'd missed him. _Shit._

Fawkes was on his perch, picking at his wing feathers. He was rough and sickly-looking, jagged red feathers sticking up at odd angles. Almost burning day. Snape ran a finger along the top of his head and found it a lot softer than he'd expected.

"How do you put up with him?" he murmured, stroking his face. Fawkes nipped at his finger.

"I suppose the old schemer knows what he's doing."

Sweet Merlin, he was talking to a bird. Dumbledore's eccentricity must've been rubbing off on him after all those years. He gave Fawkes' head one last tap and walked away.

Just as he left the office Fawkes let out a soft, musical cry.

*

Snape rummaged through the drawer until he found the vial. Colourless, nearly odourless. Just a little bit bitter.

_Just like falling asleep. It's just like falling asleep._

He slipped it into his pocket and waited. He opened a book but couldn't read it. He didn't know how much time passed. Hours maybe, his fire was getting low. Snape stood up to stoke it when his mark burned black. He slammed his book shut and stood up just as the door to his office burst open.

"Death Eaters!" shouted Flitwick. "In the castle-seventh floor-"

Snape wasn't sure what was happening, but he knew if Flitwick got in the way he'd be killed. He drew in a deep breath.

_You're just keeping him safe._

_"Stupefy!"_

Flitwick fell to the floor.

_Just like falling asleep._

He ran out the door into Miss Lovegood and Miss Granger. That arrogant, reckless girl. She had no idea what she was getting herself into. He had to keep them safe, out of the way.

"Flitwick's collapsed," he said. "Take care of him while I go see what's happening."

Snape pelted up stairs and through the corridors. The room on the seventh floor, that's where they'd come in, he knew it. He didn't stop until he got there.

There were flashes of light and shouted curses, but no Dumbledore. Snape kept running.

He followed the trail of damage to a solid stone wall that blocked the entrance to the Astronomy tower. Tonks was slamming herself against the entrance, trying to get through. She raised her wand.

"Reducto. REDUCTO!"

Snape pushed past her.

He thought something would happen, that a cold draught of air might blow across him as though he'd passed through a portal into another life. But there was nothing to mark his passage through. The stairs were so still, so ordinary.

He heard rough voices, and then he knew. The old man wasn't alone.

He would have to use a killing curse.

_Don't make me do it._

There was a low rasping growl that could only be Greyback. Fucking hell. The beast was going to rip his throat.

Snape closed his eyes. One last second of peace. Why couldn't everything just stop? If he had a time-turner or something...

But he didn't. He ran up the stairs.

He saw them. Greyback, Yaxley, the Carrows. He welcomed the anger that filled him, the hatred. He needed it.

The boy was standing in front of Dumbledore, lowering his wand. So he would be spared. Snape didn't know what he felt.

"Severus."

The old man was slumped against the wall, his hat covered in silver stars and sitting crookedly on his head. His glasses were falling down his nose and Snape could see his eyes, wide and afraid. A bit of spit glistened at the side of his mouth.

He had no business looking so human. Let those blue eyes be cool, calculating, rational. _It's all right my dear boy, everything is going to plan, why don't you just get on with it already?_

"Severus...please..."

And Dumbledore was drinking hot chocolate and Dumbledore was singing to himself and Dumbledore was asking him to take his life.

Snape raised his wand.

He needed to _feel_ it. But he didn't.

He looked into the old man's face. _You scheming bastard, why are you making me do this?_

But it wasn't strong enough. He looked into Dumbledore’s eyes and he could've sworn he saw his own face looking back at him.

His own twisted, wretched face.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

Dumbledore's eyes widened like a surprised child. Then he fell.

_Just like falling asleep._

Only it wasn't. He fell and fell and fell.


	4. Chapter 4

Cheers broke out around Snape, and Draco was standing there looking stunned. He didn't know why but he had to get him out of there, the Ministry was coming. He didn't know why but they were going to show up and they'd all be in trouble.

"Out of here, quickly." Someone else was speaking and moving his body. Hands that weren't his grabbed Draco by the collar and pulled him away. Snape didn't know where he was.

And they ran and ran down the corridors, why were they running, why were all those people shouting?

_Dumbledore was holding up a book. "Joy in the Morning, have you read this Severus? It's simply delightful."_

_It looked like a lot of nonsense to Snape but he took it and read it. He liked it. A bit. He'd forgotten to give it back though._

That idiot Rowle was shooting jets of green light everywhere and Snape shielded Draco with his own body because what did it matter if the green light hit him?

But why were they running?

_Dumbledore was standing with him in front of the Mirror of Erised._

_"I cannot tell you that it does no good to linger on regret, because I have spent most of my life doing so," he said.. "But you must find some means of making peace with it."_

But what did he mean? How could he possibly make peace with everything that had happened? Why was he always speaking in bloody riddles...

He was running through the grounds now, the wind hitting his face.

" _Stupefy!_ "

Snape spun around. Potter. What was he doing out in the grounds this late at night?

"Run, Draco," said his voice.

Potter raised his wand and Snape knew what he was thinking without having to even look into his thoughts. As though they were two halves of the same mind. He blocked the curse.

There was crackling and heat and orange light. Hagrid's hut was on fire and Snape didn't know why but he knew he couldn't put it out.

Potter raised his wand again.

" _Cruc-_ "

Snape couldn't believe the filth coming out of the boy's mouth. That reckless, arrogant bastard, defiling himself like that after everything he'd done for him. Snape blocked the curse.

"No Unforgiveable Curses from you Potter! You haven't got the nerve or the ability."

Snape knew what he was going to do before the spell even left his mouth. He blocked him again. The fire lit the boy's face, exaggerated his rage until he was demonic, inhuman. Why was he like this?

Snape blocked another curse, and another and another.

The boy fell to the ground, screaming and writhing, had one of his curses backfired? Snape turned and saw Rowle standing over the boy, sneering. That sadistic bastard, torturing a child.

"NO!" he yelled "Have you forgotten our orders? Potter belongs to the Dark Lord-we are to leave him. Go!"

Rowle had never liked him much, but he took off running and didn't look back.

And Potter was his father and he was jeering at him and pointing his wand. Snape stared into those eyes, her eyes in that horrible, hateful face. _Levi-_

"No Potter!" Snape blasted him back to the ground. The nerve of that-that ingrate, that bastard. Using spells from his own book. "You dare use my own spells against me? It was I who invented them-I, the half-blood prince. And you'd use your inventions against me like your filthy father would you? I don't think so- _no._ "

Snape blasted the boy's wand out of reach. Let him try it now.

"Kill me then!" yelled Potter. "Kill me like you killed him, you coward-"

Killed, the boy said he'd killed...how dare he be the one...Snape couldn't think...someone screamed and his throat was fire.

"DON'T CALL ME COWARD!"

Snape slashed his wand and ran, ran until he was outside of the gates, why couldn't he run out of his own skin, fly away?

He spun into the air.

*

The manor house was mocking him. All the downstairs windows were lit as brightly as though with electricity, a defiant spiteful lustre. Snape wished he could smash them open and burn the whole place down until it was lifeless and black, no trace of mockery in the defeated rubble.

He couldn't take another step but he had to, they were all waiting for him.

_Nothing happened. Just the usual business. Just another day._

He said it over and over again until he believed it and took a deep breath.

The noise hit his ears the second he walked inside. Alecto cheered and Amycus clapped him on the back and even Rowle gave him a nod.

Bellatrix raised her glass. "The man of the hour," she said, and he hated the way her eyes were smiling, was she mocking him?

Snape looked straight at the Dark Lord, who was standing by the fireplace in the drawing room.

The corners of his mouth turned up. "So the old fool got what he deserved? Well done, Severus. Well done indeed."

"Thank you, my Lord," said Snape. He forced his lips into a smile.

The Hogwarts grounds were beautiful this time of year, bluebells and thistle popping up everywhere. He ought to go for a walk later, see them in the moonlight.

"Celebrate with us, Severus," said a voice. The Dark Lord was gesturing around the room, which had turned into a party, everyone talking and drinking and toasting each other.

"I thank you for the invitation, my Lord."

The Dark Lord was watching him. Snape mind wandered back to the Hogwarts grounds and the mist over the lochs.

_Snape was standing by the shore of the black lake and Dumbledore's head popped out of the water. His robes were bunched up in a heap by the shore._

_"Care to join me, Severus?"_

_Snape just stared at the nutter with his mouth open. He couldn't see the old man but he knew his eyes were laughing._

_"I do enjoy a good swim in the morning."_

Snape's body was moving about the room, being congratulated, patted on the back. But he was hovering above them like a beam of light, looking down.

Time passed, he didn't know how much, when his thoughts wandered to Draco. Snape hadn't seen him since he got to the manor. He excused himself and walked up and down the halls until the laughter and shouting grew too distant to hear, looking into all the rooms he passed. He found the boy in the family room, slumped on the sofa with his head in the hands.

Narcissa was standing at the doorway. "He won't be punished," she whispered. "But it's been so hard on him."

Snape gestured to the boy. "Can I-?"

Narcissa nodded.

Snape sat down on the opposite side of the sofa, fiddling with his hands and looking at the photographs on the shelves. Lucius and Narcissa and Draco in front of some white stone houses, Greece maybe. He didn't really know what to say.

Draco sat up straighter and Snape was startled by his red, swollen eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Snape bristled. He'd just saved the boy from something, he couldn't really remember what. "I thought I'd see how you're holding up." The words came out harsher than he'd intended.

Draco scowled. "How could you just sit there like nothing's happened? Don't you ever feel anything-"

"Draco, enough!" snapped Narcissa, stepping towards the sofa. "Do you have any idea what he's done for you?" She leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. "And for Circe's sake, don't act like you're in mourning. Do you have any idea how that makes us look?"

Draco stood up and pushed past his mother. "Better than you."

Narcissa watched him walk away, looking stricken. Her eyes darted towards Snape on the sofa and she recovered herself, sucking in her breath and straightening her back as though on cue. "I'm sorry Severus. He's been under a great deal of strain. But you know that."

Snape didn't know what to say to this. He didn't know why Draco should be so distraught.

Narcissa's eyes turned sharp, scrutinizing. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine. Just tired." He wondered if Narcissa believed this.

She put a hand to his arm and Snape flinched as though she had burned him.

"Perhaps you should get some rest then."

"I think I will."

"You're welcome to use one of the guest bedrooms."

"Thank you," said Snape. But he had no intention of staying.

He stood up and made his way to down corridors and staircases until the singing and shouting and laughter grew louder. Likely they'd all be so deep in their revelry they wouldn't notice him.

He walked until he was outside the gates and he'd just begun to spin when he thought he saw two figures in the distance, one so enormous he could only be Rowle. They were up to something, but he didn't care just then, he had to get out of there.

When he stopped spinning he was on the edge of a cliff that dropped sharply to the sea below. He didn't know why that particular spot had come into his head, maybe because it was as far away as he could Apparate, the northernmost point in Britain. He felt as though he were on the edge of the world, like he could just hurl himself off.

He sank to the ground and screamed until his throat hurt and vomited on the rocks. When everything was out he seized a fistful of hair and pulled it out but it didn't hurt enough. He pulled again and again and again until his head ached.

He ignored his aching head and the stale acid smell of his vomit and listened to the sea crashing on the rocks below the cliff. He could get a running start and throw himself off the edge, not a bad way to go really. Just like flying, and then nothing.

He wondered what everyone would think when they found his body. Was he important enough to make the front page of the _Prophet_ , or would he get a bare-bones obit on page B5 under an adverstisement for Skele-Gro?

_Severus Snape, 37, late of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, predeceased by Eileen and Tobias Snape, mourned by no one._

He imagined the rest of the Order, Minerva's grim satisfaction, Potter's smug vindication.

He couldn't do it. He lay face down on the rocks, waiting to waste away there, where no one would think to look for him.

_Get up._

He only ever heard her voice when he was at his lowest. Never when he was just sitting and reading a book or something. The way it had been when they were children, high-pitched and pleasant and just a bit nasally.

"I can't."

_You can._

Two words, just two words, but they were a talisman against his own despair. _You can_. He could. He had to.

He flattened his hands against the ground and pushed himself up and took a step, then another. He stood and stared out at the sea.

***

Graihagh threw down her quill and rubbed her forehead. Owain had left for the night and she was sitting at her work table in the back room of the shop, Cate's letters spread out in front of her. The first and second ones had been short and to the point. _Just wondering how you are_ and _have you made a decision yet?_ By the time she wrote the third letter she didn't even care any more if Graihagh wanted to join.

_I just want to see you._

The writing was messier than usual and Graihagh wondered if she'd been upset when she wrote it, or just in a hurry.

Graihagh had no idea what to write, because she wanted to see her just as badly, but how could she look her in the face and let her down?

_Dear Cate,_

_I want to see you too. Sorry I’m such a bloody coward._

She crumpled up the parchment and threw it against the wall.

She slumped into a chair with her head in her hands and sat there a long time, until the dark and the quiet made her so nervous she couldn't stay any longer. She locked the door behind her and hurried back to the flat.

Milo was sitting at the little table in the kitchen eating some takeaway fish and chips, but Graihagh went straight to her room. She waited until Milo's bedroom door closed and changed into a short-sleeve top and jeans, slipping the bollan cross into her pocket. She grabbed some Muggle money and walked out of the flat as quietly as she could, because she knew Milo wouldn't really like where she was going.

The pub was packed and Graihagh stood in the entrance a moment scanning the tables for familiar faces until she found some, sitting at a far corner. They beckoned her over and she was happy enough to go join them. This wasn't like in the wizarding world, where just about everyone her own age had gone to school with her. They didn't know her well enough to judge her. She could hide in her own anonymity.

They stayed there until closing time and when she'd set her glass down and stood up the woman next to her raised her eyebrows just slightly and nodded towards the door. Graihagh followed her outside. She wouldn't get anything too strong, just a few sleepers maybe, something to take the edge off.

She didn't do this very often, and she didn't know why she bothered with it at all, when she could easily make herself a potion. Maybe because it was more dangerous this way, more pleasurable and more punishing.

Someone seized her and pulled her off the pavement. Graihagh cried out.

"It's just me," said Milo. He narrowed his eyes at the woman Graihagh had been walking with and the woman gave Graihagh a questioning look and left with the others.

"Why didn't you tell me where you were going? I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I was just going for a walk, I didn't think I'd be gone that long-"

"And you just happened to walk to this particular pub and stay til two in the morning?"

"Yeah, well..." Graihagh's voice trailed off rather stupidly.

Milo let out an exasperated noise. "Merlin, Graihagh." He glanced around the street. "Let's find a place where I can Disillusion us."

"Fynn not with you?"

"No," said Milo, and Graihagh supposed he didn't want to bother them this time of night.

They walked until they couldn't see anyone, and Milo pulled two wands out of the pocket of his jeans.

"Here," he said, handing one to Graihagh. "You should keep this with you."

"Thanks," she said. She'd just put it in her pocket when something jumped out in front of them.

" _Incarcerous!"_

Graihagh went so rigid she couldn't cry out, couldn't even struggle against the invisible ropes. She just stared ahead at distant figures down the street and watched as they went into a house, where they'd never see her.

She thought they were moving, being dragged along the pavement to a narrow gap between two buildings. She turned her head so she could look at the two hooded figures.

Thorfinn Rowle was staring straight at her. She couldn't move.

The second figure reached up to scratch his head and his hood fell back.

Milo's face contorted in shock. "Evander?"

"I take it he's a relative of yours?" said Thorfinn, voice edged with impatience.

"Cousin," said the figure. He was thin and slight and looked vaguely like Milo but his voice was much different, rougher.

"You're not backing out on me are you?"

Evander couldn't seem to look at them. "No."

"You have the Portkey?"

Evander pulled a woman's shoe out of his pocket and tapped his wand to it. Graihagh wondered where it'd come from.

" _Portu-"_

"Wait!" Graihagh had shouted out of panic more than anything. She wracked her brains for some way to stop them.

"That's not a legal Portkey, is it? The Ministry'll be after you in minutes."

Thorfinn let out a derisive huff. "Half the Ministry is on our side now."

"Not the Manx Ministry."

"Yeah, but we'll be gone by the time they get here, won't we?"

" _Portus._ "

Graihagh's chest ached and she couldn't move, couldn't think, could only stare at the building in front of her. All she could see were the cracks and gouges like scars in the flesh-coloured stones.

*

Thorfinn and Evander walked behind them, pushing them towards a wrought-iron gate. They stopped and raised their left arms and the gates creaked open.

Graihagh sucked in her breath. She knew these grounds. She'd pruned these hedges, planted some of the trees, eaten dinner at the manor house. She didn't understand why they'd taken them there. The Malfoys were blood purists, a bit strange, maybe, a bit too interested in Thorfinn and Milo, but they were nice enough people. She'd heard something awhile ago, about Mr. Malfoy breaking into the Ministry and attacking the Potter boy, but she wasn't sure she believed it.

They walked past the mermaid fountain and Graihagh half expected to see Draco flying his broom through it the way he used to do. Graihagh closed her eyes and listened to the trickling of the water. It was midsummer and she was sitting there with Milo, drinking cold pumpkin fizz after a long day of work...

Thorfinn pushed them off the path and into the garden, among the hedges and trees. The light of the fairies was warm against the deep blue sky and the gardens were full of music, the steady chorus of crickets and frogs. They were just there for the evening, just there to stroll around the gardens, just like old times. Nothing else was happening. She breathed in the night air but her breath was sharp and shaky. Thorfinn stopped and Graihagh wondered if he was going to let them go.

They were outside a stone garden shed, large enough to be a small cottage. The windows were pitch black, staring, like endless empty tunnels waiting to suck her in so far she'd never come out. She couldn't move. Milo's breathing was fast and shallow but he'd gone rigid and stopped shaking.

The door squeaked so loudly she wondered if someone might hear it. Maybe someone was in hearing range, Mrs. Malfoy or someone. She wanted to cry out but she knew Thorfinn would silence them.

She was working on a new potion, to stop muscle cramps, and she was so close. She just needed to tweak a few things and then she’d have it. And she’d never written that letter to Cate. She didn’t want to go, not now.

Thorfinn shoved them inside the shed.

"Evander," said Milo, voice so hoarse she could barely hear him. "Please."

Evander lowered his eyes and Graihagh saw a ghost of a chance in the way his jaw tightened.

"Please-"

"Shut your fucking mouth," said Thorfinn. He turned to Evander and nodded to the door. "I'll take it from here."

Evander gave Milo one last look and turned towards the door.

"Wait!" said Milo.

Evander turned to look at him.

"My father's going to find out about this. He's on the Wizengamot."

"Not anymore," said Evander.

Thorfinn snorted. "Didn't you hear? They paid him off, sent him packing to an early retirement in the Caymans so he could get strung out on his potions in private and stop being an embarrassment."

Milo looked so stricken Graihagh knew it was the first he'd heard of it. He hadn't spoken to his parents in years, there was no way he could have known, really. She reached out for him but her arms wouldn't move.

Evander hesitated by the door with his hands in his pockets, shifting on his feet like he couldn't make up his mind, and Thorfinn made an impatient noise.

"Get going, Selwyn."

Without another look at them Evander turned and closed the door behind him.

He'd sold out his own fucking cousin. Who were these people?

Graihagh couldn't see a thing, but she heard the swish of fabric and the dull shuffle of footsteps on the dirt floor. She struggled against the ropes but they wouldn't give.

" _Lumos._ " The blue-white light made Thorfinn's body ghostly, exaggerated, comical almost. Sharp points of light reflected off the shovels and trowels and seceteurs hanging on the walls. She wondered if they were the same ones they'd used when they'd worked in the garden all those years ago.

If she could just reach them...

Thorfinn stood and stared at them so long Graihagh wondered if he'd just throw his head back and laugh and tell them it was all a joke, it was all good, did they want to join him in a bit of fun?

"I spent eight fucking years in Azkaban," said Thorfinn, his voice quiet, controlled, as though he’d been rehearsing. “Do you have any idea what it was like?”

Graihagh didn’t know what to say, but he didn't seem to expect an answer.

"They put you in this cramped, dirty cell, probably an eighth of the size of this shed here-” he gestured around the room-”and do you know what’s standing there right outside the bars? Fucking dementors. I had to sit there for eight years and relive all my worst memories and do you know what the worst one was?"

He stared them down, waiting. Graihagh shook her head.

“It was the two of you turning me in, getting me expelled like the fucking little traitors you are. I lost everything, I couldn’t even find a job. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

"I'm-I'm so sorry," said Graihagh, but that was a complete lie, and Thorfinn knew it.

"You lying little bitch," he hissed. His voice grew louder, more heated. "You're not sorry, either of you. You have no idea what it's like. But you're going to feel some of it now, aren’t you?"

The blue-white tip of his wand was right in front of her, like a single star in the sky. Graihagh stared at it.

" _Libero_."

The ropes binding her and Milo vanished. Graihagh looked at her hands. He’d set them free, she couldn’t believe it.

" _Crucio!_ "

Graihagh broke her wrist once, when she was seven. She hadn't felt anything at first. She didn't think it would be so bad until the pain came, in waves and waves that made her throw up. This was worse, so much worse, and it didn't stop. She was ripped open. Her throat was fire and her eyes were screaming and it had to stop, she was going to kill herself if it didn't stop.

And then it was gone and she was on her hands and knees on the dirt floor, limp and wrung out. So that was it. He'd gotten his revenge, he'd let them go.

" _Crucio._ "

Waves of pain spread through her. She threw up in the dirt. Someone was screaming.

"Stop!"

The pain left and Milo was in front of her, shielding her from Thorfinn.

Graihagh sat up on her knees and pulled at his shirt. "Milo, no-"

Thorfinn looked from her to Milo with a coldly amused expression, as though they’d done something daft. "You're fucking her, I suppose?" He raised his wand.

"Bet she's shit. _Crucio!_ "

Milo's screams were unreal, a desperate trapped animal sound that was as bad as the pain.

The words tore their way through her throat. "Stop! Just stop!"

Thorfinn blasted her back against the wall and kept on going. His voice was alive, excited, just the way they'd been all those years ago when they'd first learned how to do the curse. She never could've imagined it would lead to this. She should've known.

Milo kept on screaming, and Graihagh kept pulling him away, only to be blasted back against the wall again, and still Thorfinn didn't stop. Graihagh threw herself in front of Milo, shielding him.

" _Crucio!_ "

She fell face-first into the dirt and the pain was back, she couldn't keep going. She just needed it to end, needed to black out.

And then it was gone. She collapsed on the floor and threw up again.

There was a long silence and Thorfinn just stood there as though deep in thought. She prayed he would kill them already.

" _Lumos._ "

The shed was filled with blue-white light and she looked up.

"Follow me," said Thorfinn, and his voice was calm, strange.

Graihagh didn’t question it. She glanced at Milo, who was lying next to her with his eyes closed.

"Milo," she whispered. "Get up."

Milo didn't move. She checked his wrist for a pulse and found one, weak, rapid. He was still alive. She shook him.

"Milo, we can go now."

He was as still as though asleep. Graihagh shook him harder but he still didn’t move.

"Come," said Thorfinn's voice. Only she didn't think it was Thorfinn speaking.

"I can't. I can't move him."

Thorfinn knelt down and slipped his arms under Milo's, lifting him so gently that Graihagh knew it wasn't really him, and she understood-the Imperius Curse. But who had done it? Evander, maybe? But she didn't think so.

"Get up."

Graihagh was too weak to stand up. "I can't."

"You can."

The voice was so certain she almost believed it, and anyway, she had to. She spread her hands out on the dirt floor and pushed herself up. Her legs were shaking so hard she fell over.

"Try again."

She rested a minute and raised herself up on her legs, bending at the knees to get her balance and shifting her weight until she was standing. She took one step, then another.

"Good," said the voice. "Now follow me."

The door creaked open and the Thorfinn who wasn't Thorfinn carried Milo through the garden, back to the path and out the wrought-iron gate. Graihagh heard more footsteps, but she couldn't see anyone.

When they were well outside the gates the Thorfinn who wasn't Thorfinn slipped Milo into Graihagh's arms. "Take him to the Hog's Head Inn in Hogsmeade. Go to the back entrance and knock seven times, slowly."

Graihagh nodded. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

The figure just looked at her without speaking. She didn't know if whoever it was controlling him had heard her.

She slipped her arms under Milo's, draping his limp arm across her shoulder. Her legs were so weak she didn't see how she'd ever be able to do it.

"Concentrate," said the voice.

Graihagh nodded and balanced herself as best she could, looking over Milo's shoulder at the gate they'd just come through. She couldn't see who it was from that distance, but it was enough to know someone was watching out for her. She spun into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration for the second part of this chapter came from [MarshmallowMcGonagall's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowMcGonagall) gorgeous Snape/Tonks fic [Skinny Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23275138/chapters/55739887)
> 
> I think I'm going to be a little looser with the POV switches in this fic just to keep the story flowing. Some chapters might just have one POV and some will have them in a different order, but I'll make sure to be clear about whose it is. If gets confusing or makes the story harder to read please let me know, I'm ~~an inexperienced writer who doesn't know what she's doing~~ always open to concrit, so I will not tear you a new one, promise!
> 
> There's no way I'm going to be able to update every single week, but as long as I have something ready I'll update :) This fic is keeping me going, I hope it's providing a nice distraction to all of you <3 (if a rather angst-ridden one!)


	5. Chapter 5

Graihagh pressed Milo against her chest so hard her arm was numb, she was so afraid he would slip away from her. They fell onto a cobblestone street lit only by the sliver of a crescent moon overhead.

A wooden sign creaked above them and when Graihagh looked up she saw they were right in front of the Hog's Head Inn. She heaved Milo all the way to the front door before she remembered that the Thorfinn who wasn't Thorfinn had told her to go to the back.

"Shit," she breathed. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with her shoulder. She wasn't sure she could carry him that far, but she didn't really have a choice. She stood still a moment to catch her breath and dragged him to the back door.

There was a wooden crate along the wall but she knew if she sat down she wouldn't be able to get back up, so still holding onto Milo with both arms she lifted her fist to the door and knocked seven times, slowly.

Nothing. Minutes passed, and finally a light flickered in the upstairs window and faint footsteps sounded from somewhere inside. The door creaked open and a long-bearded man stood there, his eyes so red and tired she was sure he hadn't slept.

“In. Quickly.”

There was no question of whether or not to trust him. Graihagh's arms were so tired they were shaking. She summoned up every last bit of her strength to drag Milo into the dim room, lit only by a candlestick the long-bearded man was holding.

"What the hell happened to you?" he said. He reminded her vaguely of Owain, and someone else, though she couldn't really think of who just then. She was losing her grip on Milo.

"Take him. Please. I'm going to drop him."

The man set the candle on a barrel and grabbed Milo by the wrist and legs, draping him over his shoulders in a fireman's lift in one swift movement. Graihagh might've been impressed by it, if she weren't so exhausted.

"Follow me," the man said.

Graihagh took the candle and he led her upstairs, to the end of a short hallway where was nothing but stretch of chipped plaster. He took his hand from Milo's arm and reached into his pocket for his wand, tapping out a complicated rhythm against the wall, until there was a flash of light that startled Graihagh so badly she cried out.

The man didn't notice, or pretended not to. When the light faded a wooden door appeared and Graihagh went inside, Aberforth stooping to keep his head from hitting the lintel. They were in an old storage room, by the looks of it, filled with crates and barrels threaded together with gossamer cobwebs as though they hadn't been touched in centuries.

"I don't suppose you know how to conjure a bed?" said Aberforth.

"Haven't got a clue," breathed Graihagh, sinking down on the floor. She couldn't conjure so much as a toothpick.

The man lowered Milo into Graihagh's arms and left the room, coming back with two thin mattresses and a pile of blankets. "This'll have to do for now," he said, dropping them on the floor. "I'd let you stay in one of the rooms, but I take it you're in some kind of trouble?"

"Yeah."

"Thought so. This is a hidden room. No one knows about it but the Order. Whoever's after you would have a job of it finding you here. I'm Aberforth, by the way."

"Graihagh. And this is Milo."

Graihagh laid Milo down on a mattress and Aberforth knelt down and looked him over.

"What happened?"

Graihagh sank down on her mattress with her head in her hands. She could barely think. "Tortured. He passed out, I can't seem to wake him."

Aberforth put his head close to Milo, listened to his breathing, lifted up his t-shirt and examined his chest. "Looks alright, physically. It's his mind we need to worry about."

Graihagh sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"

"I mean torture can do things to the mind. Make a person go mad. You ever hear of the Longbottoms?"

The names sounded familiar, but she couldn't think who they were just then. "No."

"They were Aurors, the two of them. Brilliant. And they've spent the last sixteen years in the closed ward of St. Mungo's not even able to remember their own damned names. Bellatrix Lestrange's work, that was."

"You mean they never...?"

"No."

Graihagh's heart pounded. He couldn't. That couldn't have happened. She knelt down and grabbed Milo's face as though she make him better through force of will.

Aberforth put a hand to her arm. "Let him rest, there's no use waking him."

“Shouldn’t we take him to St. Mungo’s? Maybe a Healer could do something...”

"Better not risk it. Security at St. Mungo’s is shit these days, there’s already been a few murders.”

So there was nothing they could do but wait. Graihagh drew her hand away and put a blanket over him, tucking it under his shoulders and studying his face. The idea that he'd wake up and see her and not know her, not know anything, never create anything again...she couldn't stand it, couldn't think about it. Her breath came in choking gasps.

"You'd better get some rest too, by the looks of it."

Graihagh crawled to her mattress and pulled a blanket overself like a child who'd just been told to go to bed. She was so tired.

"If you need anything, just pull this-" he gestured to a string hanging from the ceiling, the kind sometimes attached to lighbulbs. "Don't go into the rest of the inn or down to the bar, I get all sorts here, some of 'em might be people you don't want to run into."

"Right," said Graihagh. “Thank you.” She tried to think of something else to say. She needed to sleep, but she didn't want him to go. She felt safer with him there.

Aberforth walked through the door he'd made and the room got dark.

Graihagh sat up. "Wait!"

"What is it?"

"Can you keep that candle here?"

"Alright," he grunted. He set the candle down on a barrel. "Whatever you do don't knock it down and start a fire, I can't do magical repairs worth shit and my insurance won’t cover it."

He closed the door behind him and the room was quiet.

Graihagh laid back down on her mattress and pulled the covers around her self, shaking so hard her stomach hurt. She had to sleep, she couldn’t stand to think. She thrust her hands in every pocket of her jeans but there was nothing there except a couple of Manx pound notes and the bollan cross.

She curled up in a ball and clutched at her head and recited the ingredients for Headache Solution, Draught of Peace, Veritaserum.

She saw Thorfinn’s face and the blue-white tip of his wand, heard Milo screaming. Saw Bellatrix Lestrange with her wand held out in front of her. Bellatrix, her mother’s friend...and then she was her mother, and she was Bellatrix, and she was pointing her wand at Milo and he was screaming. It was all her fault, everything that had happened to him was her fault.

She pulled at her hair and rolled around on the mattress but she couldn’t make it go away. She breathed in but her chest was tight and she was lightheaded and dizzy, she wasn’t getting enough air, she was suffocating.

What was it the Healer had said ages ago? Control the breathing, close your eyes, it’ll pass.

She took a deep breath and held it in, closed her eyes and laid against Milo's warm back, listened to his steady breathing. She curled up beside him and after awhile she fell asleep.

*

Graihagh sat up on her mattress with only one thought in her head. _What if Thorfinn knew who her dad and stepmum were?_

She had to warn them, to tell them she was safe and not to worry. Maybe she could persuade them to move to Canada or someplace, only she doubted they'd want to leave the island and their jobs. They'd need some sort of magical protection.

Her muscles were so stiff and sore her eyes watered and she couldn't remember why, or where she was. The candle had burned down to a stub and all she could see were the flickery orange outlines of the barrels and crates and boxes that were stacked up everywhere. Her eyes searched the room until she found the string dangling from the ceiling. She got up and hobbled across the room, swearing under her breath, and pulled.

She braced herself against a barrel, willing the man to go faster-Abner or whatever his name was. After a slow geological age the door banged open.

“What is it?” said a gruff voice.

“I need a Portkey."

“A Portkey? Now? What the hell for?”

“I think my dad and stepmum might be in danger. They live on the Isle of Man, it’s too far to Apparate and I can’t fly there quickly enough.”

“You can’t get a Portkey that quickly either, the way things are at the Ministry these days. Unless you've got the right name they’ll piss about for days before they approve anything.”

“What about an emergency Portkey?”

“You’d have to show up in person.”

“So?”

“So use your head, girl. Ministry’s teeming with informants.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” she hissed. She glanced over at Abner-or-whatever-his-name-was. “Sorry.”

He raised a shaggy white eyebrow at her. “Do I look like I give a fuck about propriety? Now, when you’ve untwisted your knickers I’ve got a better idea. I know some people who might be able to help you.”

“Can you get in touch with them? Now?”

Abner-or-whatever-his-name-was spat out a wad of some reddish substance that looked like chewing tobacco and Vanished it with a flick of his wand. "I'll give it a try. Don’t know if anyone'll show up though. They might be busy with other things. There’s a war going on, in case you haven’t noticed. People dying.

His last words came out tight, strained, as though he were trying not to show any emotion, and Graihagh was startled.

“What are you looking at?” he barked.

Graihagh glanced away and the old man raised his wand and muttered something under his breath. A silver goat shot out the end, some misty plasma-like substance that hovered somewhere between gas and solid. He said a few words to it and it flew out the door.

Graihagh gave him a questioning look, but he just stood there and picked at his beard, head cocked slightly to one side like a dog listening to the wind.

Graihagh lowered herself onto a wooden box and sat down. She didn’t have a clue what to say.

“Ah. That’s him,” he said after a long silence. 

There were footsteps on the stairs and a thin, serious-looking man stepped into the room. He had dark circles under his eyes and his faded robes were wrinkled all over as though he'd slept in them.

He strode forwards and put a hand to the older man's arm. “I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?”

Something horrible must've happened, but Graihagh had no idea what it could've been.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” said the man. “Do you need anything?”

The older man waved away his concern. “Like I said, I’m fine. It’s these two that need help.” He nodded towards Graihagh and Milo, still asleep on his mattress.

The younger man looked from one to the other. “What happened?

“It was...Rowle,” said Graihagh. She could barely say his name. “He captured us and tortured us.”

“How’d you get away?”

“I don’t know. Someone Imperiused him and told us to come here.”

The man's forehead wrinkled in confusion, but Graihagh didn’t understand it any better than he did.

“I think my friend might’ve suffered some damage. He passed out and I couldn’t wake him.”

The man knelt down next to Milo and examined his face, his chest, his arms. "There isn't much physical damage," he said. "But it's possible his mind might've been affected."

Hearing it from someone else made it so much worse. "Is there anything we can give him?" said Graihagh. "Any potions or anything?"

The man shook his head. "I don't know."

Graihagh didn't even bother to hide how upset she was. She slumped down and rubbed her forehead.

"Isn't there something you wanted to ask?" said the older man, sounding thoroughly annoyed by the whole business.

Graihagh had completely forgotten. "Oh. Right." She sat up straighter. "I'm afraid Rowle might go after my family. Someone needs to warn them, maybe put some protections round their house or something."

"I can do that," said the younger man. "Just tell me where they live."

"Shouldn't I come with you?"

He ran a hand through his hair and studied her a moment.

"Better not. There's a good chance he could show up looking for you. And someone should stay with your friend."

He didn't come out and say it, but Graihagh had the feeling she'd just be in the way. Her own fault, for getting so wrapped up in her potions and spells and Thorfinn's plans she'd failed nearly all her O.W.L.s.

"Right,” she said, trying to clear her head, come up with a plan. “Yeah. You wouldn't happen to have any parchment on you, would you?"

"No, but I can Summon some, if it's alright with you." He was looking at the older man, who nodded, and he reached down for his wand and looked back up again as though he'd just remembered something.

"I don't think I've introduced myself. I'm Remus Lupin, I'm in the Order of the Phoenix, along with Aberforth here."

So that was his name, Aberforth. She'd have to make an effort to remember, she was useless with names.

"Graihagh Corlett. And my friend is Milo Selwyn."

Remus' eyes widened slightly in curiosity, likely wondering what what a Pureblood was doing on the run from Death Eaters, but to her relief he didn't ask, just held out his hand. Graihagh stood up and shook it, struck by warmth of his skin underneath the calluses and scars.

He drew his hand away and with a flick of his wand a few sheets of parchment flew into the room. He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a quill.

“Thank you,” said Graihagh. She set the parchment on top of a barrel and picked up the quill, trying to keep her hand steady, writing the first things that came to mind, explaining the situation as best she could. Begging them to leave, even though she knew they wouldn’t. When she was finished she pulled out two fresh sheets, these ones to Owain and Fynn.

She handed the letters to Remus. "Could you see to it that everyone gets these?"

Remus slipped them into the pocket of his robes. "Of course."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

Remus nodded to her and gestured towards Milo. "Better keep an eye on him. He might be a bit disoriented when he wakes up."

"I will."

Remus put a hand to Aberforth's on the shoulder and their eyes met, an acknowledgement of some shared grief she didn't know about. He left the room, Aberforth following along behind.

The mattress rustled and Milo cried out as though he'd seen something terrifying. Graihagh dropped down beside him and put a hand to his head. "Milo? Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

Milo's eyes were open and staring but he had the look of a sleepwalker who wasn't all there. His cries died down but he was shaking so hard she could see it.

"It's okay," she whispered. "It's okay, you're safe now. It's just us."

Milo gripped Graihagh's arm and she pressed her hand to his. "It's alright. You're safe now." She said it over and over again, praying he heard her and the repetition would make him believe it. When Milo's grip slackened she lowered him back down on the mattress and tucked the blankets back down around him. She curled up beside him, trying to sleep, watching the last bit of light flicker and sputter on the wood floor. There was a layer of dust an inch thick and she supposed she'd have her work cut out for her if she wanted to make the place liveable. But then maybe she wouldn't have to, maybe when Milo recovered they could go back to Mann, go into hiding with her family.

She didn't know if she fell asleep or not. She was staring at the floor and after awhile footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and the door opened. Two sets of boots stepped into the room.

Graihagh sat up. Remus was there, with Fynn.

"Fynn-what?"

Fynn strode across the room to Milo and knelt by his side, their long hair falling onto his eyes. They tucked it behind their ear and stroked Milo's face with their thumb, looking pained.

"How is he?" they said.

"He woke for a bit, but he was really out of it."

"He'll probably wake again before long," said Remus. "Then we might know the extent of the damage."

Graihagh stood up, and Remus spoke before she'd even asked.

"Everything's taken care of," he said. "Your parents knew something had happened to you, actually. It seems there was some sort of commotion at your flat last night. An anti-intruder jinx went off."

Graihagh glanced over at Fynn, who was still bent over Milo. If she'd just stayed home none of this would've happened.

"They said to tell you to stay safe and not to worry," Remus went on. "I've put the Fidelius Charm around their house, it's the most secure spell there is. It won't protect them when they go out, obviously, so we can only hope he won't attack them out in the open. And it's always possible he doesn't know who they are."

"Yeah," said Graihagh absently. She doubted it.

"Are you a potioneer, by any chance?" said Remus.

Graihagh was surprised that he'd asked. "I-yeah. I am."

"I thought you must be, when I delivered that letter to the apothecary. Your employer mentioned that you're rather skilled."

Graihagh wasn't sure she'd heard him right. She'd been studying and working with Owain for ten years and he was as stingy with his praise as Professor Snape.

"You wouldn't perhaps be willing to make a few potions for the Order?" Remus went on. "We could use a potioneer since..." He let his voice trail away as though he were too tired to finish his thought.

The room was too small and the walls too close. Graihagh's head was spinning. Twenty-four hours ago she'd been eating breakfast in her flat and getting ready for work and now she was in hiding from Death Eaters and being asked point-blank to help the Order of the Phoenix. She held her breath in a few seconds to keep from getting dizzy. The last few weeks had been one fucking thing after another it seemed, why couldn't everyone just leave her alone?

She sat back down on her mattress and wrung her hands. "I don't-I don't know..."

"It's alright if you're not able," said Remus, and she hated the hesitancy in his voice, the gently rising inflection, as though he were talking to someone fragile and delicate.

She could say no, could wait for Milo to get better and take him back home to Mann, but she supposed she was just as safe here as she would be there, and anyway, she had things to make up for. She'd fucked up royally, again.

She sat up straighter and rubbed her forehead. "Yeah. I suppose I could," she said, pushing away the thought that Milo might not recover and she'd be too upset to do anything. She didn't want to think about it.

Remus nodded. "Excellent. You wouldn't by any chance know how to make Wolfsbane, would you?"

Graihagh tensed and looked him over, the greying hair and the faded robes and the scars and gashes across his face _._ Maybe he was just curious, trying to get a feel for what she was capable of, or asking for someone he knew, but she doubted it. "Yeah. I'm licensed to make it."

Remus glanced down and rubbed his head in such an intensely self-concious way that Graihagh felt it too. "Would I be able to trouble you for some? That is, if you're able. I would pay you, of course."

She knew he couldn't hurt her, the moon wasn't anywhere near full and anyway it was morning, or she thought it was anyway. But her eyes darted to the door. "Yeah. Maybe. I If I can get the ingredients and everything." She doubted this, the ingredients were rare and expensive. Which was just as well. She didn't care to be in the same room with him.

"I appreciate it," said Remus. He reached into the pocket of his robes. "Right then. We need to make you Secret-Keeper."

"Sorry?"

"It's part of the magic of the Fidelius Charm. The only people who will be able to access your parents' house are you, and those whom you chose to tell. Even I won't be able to find it again."

"Right," said Graihagh as though she'd known all along how the charm worked. All she knew was that it was extraordinary difficult to perform. She studied his wolfish profile, the thin face and the ruffled hair. "Are you sure you know how to do all this?"

Remus' expression darkened. "Lycanthropy has no effect on intellectual or magical ability, as far as I know."

This went against everything she'd ever heard, but still. Remus had helped her, or tried to anyway, and she'd gone and insulted him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I really appreciate everything you've done."

Remus' expression relaxed into something like tired resignation. "It's alright. And it was no trouble." He pulled his wand out of the pocket of his robes. "Now, stand up and face me."

Graihagh did as he asked, and Remus pointed his wand muttered some complex incantation under his breath. A jet of white light wrapped around her like a long ribbon.

"Now, I want you to concentrate on the exact address of your parents' house, and repeat after me. _Ego tenere secretum."_

Graihagh closed her eyes. " _Ego tenere secretum."_

She sensed a warmth in her chest, a slight pressure in the surrounding air, as though the ribbons of light had bound her. He'd actually done it. He'd done an extraordinary bit of magic and kept her family safe, and she thought of the way he'd looked when he asked her for the potion, furtive, ashamed. She wondered if he always felt that way, if everyone reacted to him the way she had, or worse.

"That should do it,” said Remus. He put his wand away. “I should be going. Someone with the Order will in touch within the next few days."

"Thanks again," said Graihagh, hoping he knew how much she meant it. Maybe she'd make that potion for him after all. She'd think about it anyway.

Remus nodded, and Fynn strode over and put their arms around him. "Take care," they said, clapping him on the back.

Graihagh was about to ask if they knew each other when the door banged open and Aberforth swept into the room like a squall.

"Minerva's doing my head in, keeps asking me what kind of flower arrangements we should get for the funeral, like I give a shit. I told her to talk to you. She's downstairs."

Graihagh knew this wasn't really the best time, but her curiosity got the better of her. "Did something happen?"

Remus' expression was pained, as though he dreaded having to tell her. "It was Professor Dumbledore. He died last night."

Graihagh couldn't have heard him right. "Dumbledore? No."

"He was murdered," said Aberforth, body tight and strained as his voice, all tense muscles and exposed veins.

"Oh my God," breathed Graihagh. She stared back at him, at a complete loss for anything to say.

Remus patted Aberforth's shoulder. "Why don't we go down and see Minerva?"

Aberforth grunted something in reply and the two of them left the room, closing the door behind them.

"I just can't believe he's gone," said Fynn. "I didn't believe it at first, you know? I just..." their voice trailed off and they studied Graihagh. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," said Graihagh, without really thinking, shocked and dazed from everything that had happened, everything that had been said. She sank down on her mattress, staring at the wall in front of her.

Fynn sat down beside Milo and out of the corner of her eye Graihagh could see them smoothing back his hair. She was glad the two of them were there together, but seeing them made her strangely lonely, and she didn't know why. 

***

The first thing Snape did when he got back to Spinner's End was conjure a set of drapes so heavy they blocked out the sun. His room stayed dark even on the brightest summer days, leaving his bedroom pitch-black except for a sliver of light under the door. That first night he took a potion so he wouldn't dream, but it made the time pass too quickly. He wanted to stay inside his head, even if it meant seeing things he couldn't stand to see, because sometimes he got lucky. Sometimes he was on the riverbank with Lily catching frogs and she was so real he could touch her.

He hadn't left his room in three days. Maybe it was four, he wasn't really keeping track anymore. That wankstain Wormtail wasn't around to spy on him any longer, thank Merlin. Clouds and silver linings and all that.

He'd had so much sleep that his body was restless with unused energy. Time for a sleeping draught.

His raggedy grey cat Paracelcus was asleep at the foot of his bed and Snape gave him a scratch behind the ears and went to the kitchen to put some food in his dish. He’d gone back to his room and was rummaging through the bottles in his bottom drawer when there was a knock at his front door.

"...the hell?" he muttered. There was no one left in Spinner's End.

He was so ripe he could smell himself and his hair itched from his sweat. He fumbled around for a bottle of cologne for a full minute before he realized he didn't have any. Narcissa had given him some a few years ago for a Christmas gift but he'd only used it a few times and then dumped the rest out because he liked the bottle. He stored potions in it now.

The knocking grew more insistent. He settled for a fresh set of robes and pulled his hair back in a ponytail, hoping whoever it was didn't get too close. He couldn't see any reason why they would.

He pulled back the heavy curtains on the sitting room window and though her face was covered by a hood he'd know the slim, straight-backed profile anywhere.

He slid the chain through the lock and opened the door. "In, quickly."

Narcissa hurried inside and pulled back her hood. She looked him up and down, taking in his disheveled appearance. The Dark Lord's right-hand man, in all his sweaty, dirty-haired glory.

"I-are you well?"

"I seem to have come down with a summer cold."

Narcissa raised an eyebrow just slightly, and of course she did, because why wouldn't he just make himself some Pepperup and be done with it? But to his relief she didn't say anymore about it.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I had another favour to ask."

For the love of Merlin. The last time she asked for a favour they'd ended up making an unbreakable vow. He sighed, internally.

"Have a seat."

They sat in the same places they'd sat the summer before, Snape in a chair, Narcissa on the threadbare sofa.

"Can I offer you a drink?" he said almost without thinking. Everything he'd learned about the strict protocol of the Pureblood world he'd learned from her and Lucius, and in a way he'd always liked it. So long as he stayed on script there wasn't much chance of making a blunder.

"Please," said Narcissa.

Snape Summoned a bottle of wine and two glasses from the cellar, and when he'd poured them some he raised his glass. Narcissa's face contorted into something like a scowl. He should've known she wouldn't care to toast the fucker.

But she must've thought he would. Her eyes became wide, almost fearful, as though she'd just made a dangerous blunder. He wished she weren't so frightened of him.

She raised her glass so quickly a bit of wine spilled out. "To the Dark Lord," she said, and took a long drink. Snape just watched her.

"Well, what is it you need from me?"

Narcissa set her glass down. "I was wondering if you'd spoken to the Dark Lord about Lucius yet?"

Snape shifted in his seat. "Not yet."

"Could you? Please?"

Snape took a long drink. He'd been planning to for awhile, but he dreaded kneeling down before him and begging, even for his friend. "I suppose."

Narcissa let out a long breath. "Thank you, Severus. I don't know how much longer I can take this."

She sounded weary, desperate almost. Snape didn’t have the energy to feel sorry for anyone just then. He changed the subject. "How is Draco?"

"About the same. If Lucius were to be released I think it would help him a great deal."

Or Draco would be forced to watch as his father was humiliated in a thousand small ways, but Snape didn't say anything.

Narcissa smoothed a fold in her robes and played with her glass. Her face was strained, unsmiling, and Snape thought he knew why. He'd taken over Lucius' position, he hadn't stopped the Dark Lord tormenting Draco. She knew there wasn’t much he could’ve done; she didn’t want to resent it. But she did.

The silence was much longer, louder, than it should have been. Snape finished his wine just to have something to do.

"Well," said Narcissa, setting her glass down. "I suppose I should go."

Snape walked her to the door and when they'd reached it Narcissa stopped and pressed her hand over his, a perfunctory gesture this time. Her skin was soft and cold and strange against his own and she let go quickly.

"I appreciate this, Severus."

"Not at all."

She let go and turned the doorknob.

Something about the way she held herself, that determined composure, made him think of that night with Draco, how distraught he'd been.

"Narcissa."

She looked back at him expectantly.

On instinct Snape glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "I just wanted you to know, that if the Draco were to defect-"

Narcissa made a face. "Don't be ridiculous-"

"Listen to me. If Draco were to defect, tell me immediately. I will see to it that he is safe."

"He wouldn't possibly-"

"I want your word, Narcissa."

Narcissa stared at him a few seconds. "Well...I suppose, but the whole idea is absurd, Severus. He knows what's at stake. And with Dumbledore gone there's no chance of us losing, is there?"

Snape said nothing and Narcissa's composed face wrinkled in surprise, confusion.

"Is there?"

He wouldn't lie to her, not about this anyway. "I don't know."

Narcissa let out a nervous laugh. "You musn't be feeling well." She stood up straighter and the lines on her face smoothed as she regained her composure. "Take care of yourself, Severus. And do wash up, you smell almost as bad as Amycus Carrow."

She threw her hood over her head and hurried out the door.

Snape went back to his room and slept another few hours.

*

The manor was quiet, asleep. All the others had either gone home or were sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms, including the Dark Lord, who'd practically taken over the east wing for his own personal use. Snape stepped lightly, cringing with every creak of the wooden staircase.

The door to their bedroom was slightly ajar, so Snape pulled it open a few more inches to announce his arrival.

Narcissa got up from Lucius' side and opened the door the rest of the way, her green silk dressing gown billowing behind her.

Lucius was in the bed, head propped up on a stack of pillows. His face was badly bruised and he had a freshly healed cut down the side of his cheek. His welcome back into the fold.

"You look like hell," said Snape.

Lucius' lips twitched in a weak attempt at a smirk. "You really know how to greet a man, Severus. It's only been what, a year?"

"Were you gone? I didn't even notice," said Snape. He knelt down beside him.

"I've given him some dittany for his cut," said Narcissa. "But I can't seem to get rid of the bruises."

Snape examined Lucius' face. "I thought perhaps that might be the case." He dug around in his pockets for the bottle of an especially potent bruise-removal paste he'd brought with him. He was familiar enough now with the Dark Lord's methods.

He twisted the cap off and tapped the bottle onto a soft cloth until there was a good sized glob of white paste on it. He brought the cloth to Lucius' face, spreading the paste across his bruises as gently as he could manage, working it into his skin. Lucius gasped as he rubbed the paste into the side of his jaw and his eyes shifted to Snape, furtive, embarrassed.

Snape pretended not to have noticed. There was something satisfying in the reversal, in the way Lucius needed him.

"There," he said, vanishing the cloth with a flick of his wand. "They should be completely healed by morning."

Lucius sank back into his pillows. "I don't suppose the Dark Lord will be too happy about this."

"Tell him to fuck off," said Snape. He caught Lucius' eye and Lucius let out a strangled croak of a laugh.

"Merlin, Severus, I needed that." He sank down deeper into his pillows and his eyes clouded over with some dark thing Snape couldn't see.

"Now a potion for Dreamless Sleep, I think," said Narcissa. She uncapped a vial of potion and tipped it down Lucius' throat, smoothing back his hair with her other hand. When Lucius' eyes closed she kissed his forehead and pulled the duvet up to his shoulders.

They didn't seem like much, those small gestures, but they made Snape uneasy, as though the room had become too small for the three of them. He stood up. "I should be going."

"Thank you, Severus," said Narcissa.

She stood up to open the door for him, and Snape went back to his bed in Spinner's End. In that space between awake and asleep he imagined someone touched his face and smoothed back his hair.

*

The Dark Lord nodded to Snape as he entered the room. "Severus, here." He gestured to an empty seat on his right side. Right where Lucius used to sit.

Snape kept his face serious, without any hint of pride or self-satisfaction, not that he felt any, not for what he’d done. He might've been a child at school, told to face the wall. He didn't look at Lucius or Narcissa or Draco.

"I see we are at full strength again," said the Dark Lord, scanning the table. He looked straight at Lucius, the sides of his mouth curling up into a sneer. "In a manner of speaking."

Lucius clenched his jaw and looked down at the table. Draco's face was tight and strained and Narcissa wore no expression at all. Snape had to fight to keep his mind empty, to keep the anger from showing on his face.

"Well, Yaxley? How is the situation at the Ministry?"

Yaxley sat up straighter, eyes wide, placating. "I have informants in the Department of Transportation, my Lord. The Floo Network is being closely monitored. He shouldn't be able to escape that way, or by Portkey."

The Dark Lord said nothing. A full minute of silence passed and Yaxley's face glistened with sweat.

"I'm very close to moving in on Thicknesse, I think," said Yaxley, voice so ingratiating Snape wanted to smack him upside the head.

"I should hope so, Yaxley," said the Dark Lord. "But Scrimgeour would be far preferable. Until he's been dealt with there is little we can do." He turned to Snape.

"And what about you, Severus? You must know something of the boy? The protection around him ends when he comes of age, does it not? "

"Indeed, my Lord. The Order intends to move him well before then."

"And you know the precise date and time?"

Snape did; it had been one of the last things he’d ever discussed with the Order. He didn't need to make much of an effort to hide anything. He'd already buried his memories of them deep inside his mind.

"No, my Lord. But I still have a source within the Order." This was a complete lie; as far as he knew they all wanted him dead. But he'd sort it out later.

The Dark Lord met his eyes a moment. "Very well.”

Snape heard his unspoken demand for more information, for anything that might get him closer to the boy. He may have become his right-hand man, but his reward was more work, not less.

The Dark Lord looked over the rest of them. "Is there anything further to report?" No one said anything. Snape could practically hear them all willing it to be over.

“I expect there will be better reports next time, yes?”

Murmurs of “Yes, my Lord” broke out around the table.

"Very good. You are dismissed."

There was shuffling and the scraping of chairs against the stone floor as everyone rose to leave. Draco was the first out the door, Lucius not far behind.

The day had been hot and Snape supposed he didn't need his traveling cloak but he draped it over himself anyway. He liked the weight of it, liked all those layers.

Lucius was already outside when Snape walked out the front doors, tossing seeds for his peacocks. “Retiring to Spinner’s End for the evening, Severus?”

Snape wished he were. All he wanted to do was sleep. “Yes, I’ve had a rather long day.”

Lucius emptied the bag of seeds and tucked it into his pocket. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” he said, nodding to the peacocks, the evening light shining on their long bodies, making the blues and greens and purples shimmer like water. Snape made a murmur of agreement. He liked them well enough.

Lucius stared at them a long time. “I’d forgotten what they looked like.”

Snape didn’t know what to say. He couldn't imagine the kinds of things Lucius had seen, alone in his cell.

Lucius gestured to them. "They were a symbol of royalty, did you know that? The Mughal emperors of India had a throne with peacock tails made of precious stones. And do you know what happened to it?"

Snape didn't have a clue what Lucius was on about. “No.”

"It was stolen from them. They just destroyed it." He clenched his fist around the seeds in his hand, and without warning he let out a frustrated noise and kicked at the dirt path, sending up clouds of dust that made the peacocks scatter.

Snape just stared at him. He'd never seen him lose control like this. His time in Azkaban must've been hell. And his words-was he saying what he thought he was saying, that Snape had taken something from him?

Lucius gave him a sidelong glance and brushed the dust off himself, adjusted his robes. Swept away everything he'd just done, or tried to.

"Things will be different this time," he said, more to himself, Snape thought. "This time we'll win. And it'll be glorious."

Or he would wind up dead, or back in his own private hell in Azkaban. Snape couldn't stand to think about it. He adjusted his cloak.

"I should be going. Goodnight, Lucius.”

Lucius nodded to him and Snape couldn’t detect any anger in his face. “Goodnight, Severus.”

Snape strode away and left through the front gates to Apparate.

The Hogwarts grounds were empty. The sun had already set over the mountains and long shadows stretched over the grass. Snape pushed open the gates and walked up the path to the castle.

There was fresh thatch on Hagrid's roof and smoke rising from the chimney. Snape supposed he'd fixed it up and moved back in, and he could only hope he stayed in for the night, because he'd tear him to pieces if he caught sight of him on the Hogwarts grounds, and Snape would probably just let him get on with it.

He caught a flash of brilliant white of the corner of his eye that could only be the old man’s tomb. He jerked his head away as though it had hurt his eyes and climbed the front steps to the castle.

He could’ve gone to his funeral. He could Disillusion himself well enough that no one would have seen, and he could’ve stood some distance away and watched. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He hadn’t visited his tomb or anything. Only the threat to to the boy’s life could get him up those steps and into Dumbledore’s office.

The place was so dark and so silent Snape knew he was the only living soul inside. He didn’t know if he was relieved or depressed by the thought. His footsteps echoed unbearably loud and he could've sworn the stone Gargoyle was watching him as he passed through the entrance to the stairs. He thought it might come alive, tear him to pieces, but it stayed still as always, as though it were just another ordinary day and nothing had happened.

He stood outside the door and ran an anxious hand through his hair. What if the old man was angry? What if he’d said it but not really meant it, and he’d misunderstood like the fool he was? What if he wasn’t even there? He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The instruments huffed and whirred as though Dumbledore had never left. But Fawkes’ perch was empty.

The portraits along the wall went quiet and stared silently at Snape as he passed them. There would be no praise, no applause for this cold and thankless task. He kept his eyes straight ahead, at the portrait directly behind the Headmaster’s desk. Dumbledore was dressed in robes of deepest blue embroidered with stars and moons, his hat sitting crookedly on his head. Snape could barely look at him.

Dumbledore nodded to Snape and his eyes were bright. “Thank you, Severus.”

There was no trace of anger in his voice. He seemed to mean it. Snape wanted to sink down to his knees and beg him for forgiveness and he wanted to snatch the portrait from the wall and break it over his knee. He gripped the back of a chair and mumbled something indistinct.

“I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you," said Dumbledore.

Well. No shit. What did he expect? Snape gripped the chair harder.

“So,” said Dumbledore, his sudden businesslike tone indicating that he knew perfectly well what Snape was thinking and had chosen to overlook it, “I suppose Lord Voldemort is making plans to move in on Harry when he comes of age?”

Snape flinched. “Yes. He knows the protection around him ends at that time. I’ve told him the Order are planning to move him before then, but I didn’t give the exact date.”

“You will have to give Voldemort the correct date of Harry’s departure from his aunt and uncle’s. Not to do so will raise suspicion, when Voldemort believes you so well-informed. However, you must plant the idea of decoys-that, I think, ought to ensure Harry’s safety. Try Confunding Mundungus Fletcher."

Identical Potters. Of all the crackpot ideas.

"And Severus, if you are forced to take part in the chase, be sure to act your part convincingly. I am counting upon you to remain in Lord Voldemort’s good books as long as possible, or Hogwarts will be left to the mercy of the Carrows.”

"Yes, Headmaster...Dumbledore."

Dumbledore gave him a piercing look. “Remarkable, isn't it? In just a few weeks’ time this office will become yours.”

Snape didn’t even want to think about it.

“Remember, my dear Severus, I will be behind you the whole time.”

Dumbledore’s mouth twitched and Snape raised an eyebrow. Of all the times to crack a joke.

“But on a more serious note Severus, I will always be here if you have need of me. And help will always be given at Hogwarts-”

“To those who ask for it, yes I know,” said Snape.

“It’s true, you know.”

“If you’ll excuse me Headmaster-Dumbledore-I should go and find Mundungus.”

“Goodnight, Severus.”

“Goodnight Dumbledore.”

Snape left the office, closing the door gently behind him, Dumbledore’s words in his head. He’d heard what he’d said, but he’d also heard what he hadn’t said. That aside from an enchanted portrait hanging on the wall, an imitation of the life he’d taken, he was completely alone.

He’d almost reached the front doors when an enormous barn owl dropped a letter on his head.

“What the hell...”

He picked it up off his cloak where it had lodged itself and slit the envelope.

_Dear Professor,_

_I don't know how well you remember me, but I was one of your students, the one who you taught your improved calming draught to.”_

Of course he remembered her. He'd saved her life her sixth year, spent hours with her in his office, taught her everything he knew. She was so intuitive and asked such interesting questions that there were times he actually enjoyed himself, even if she was a pain in his arse. And none too skilled at writing, by the looks of her clumsily constructed sentence.

_I can't say much here, I need some help, and I was wondering if you’d be willing? If so, could you meet me by the boar’s gate tomorrow evening at six?_

Snape folded the letter and stuffed it into his pocket. He wasn't surprised she'd sent it. He'd been expecting it, really. 

And he'd do it, even if it was risky, even if it was obvious she didn’t know what he’d done. He supposed it was only a matter of time before she found out, and hated him as much as everyone else did.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a brief reference to childhood neglect and abuse in this chapter.

Snape fastened his traveling cloak as tightly as it would go and strode up to the Hogwarts gate. Rather presumptious on her part, to assume he had nothing better to do on a summer evening. He didn't, but still. He could've had an engagement.

Or Death Eater business she knew nothing about.

Miss Corlett hurried up the path from Hogsmeade ten minutes late, a long hood draped over her head, a rather poor disguise considering her Muggle jeans made her stick out like a sore thumb. She seemed to have recovered from her ordeal, no sign of any lasting damage.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor," she panted, bending over slightly as she caught her breath.

Before Snape could say anything in reply she drew her wand and pointed it straight to his chest. Her hand was trembling so hard her wand shook but she kept it steady.

Snape jumped back and raised his own wand, readying himself for a duel. He should've known it was a trap.

Miss Corlett screamed so loudly Snape was startled.

"Will you keep it down?" he snapped. "What on earth are you doing?"

"I was just going to ask you a question," said Miss Corlett, sounding slightly hysterical. "To make sure it's really you."

Snape lowered his wand. “Well get on with it, then.”

Seconds passed and she didn't say a thing.

"Well?" said Snape.

"Right, erm...shit, I can't remember what I was going to ask."

Miss Corlett lowered her wand and glanced up at the sky, apparently lost in thought, and Snape let out a sigh that was thick with disapproval.

"Oh yeah,” she said, raising her wand rather pointlessly, since she would have been dead by now if he’d actually been an imposter. “What was the last potion you taught me to make?"

"Wolfsbane. And you nearly blew up the potions classroom."

She looked both ways and pulled off her hood.

She was as tall as he was, or nearly, and her messy braid was gone, replaced by a mop of hair that vaguely resembled Tonks', short dark strands that might've been spiky at one point and now hung limply over her head as though they'd given up. Her eyes were the same as they'd always been, sharp, defiant, sad. Like she was on the verge of shooting her mouth off and regretting it after.

“Well, Miss Corlett? What is it?”

She swiveled her head around in every direction and Snape did the same. They were too far away from Hogsmeade to be recognizable to anyone and the grounds were deserted, but still. There was no good explanation for this.

“Well, it’s just, I’ve run into a bit of trouble...” Her voice was slow, hesitant, as though she wasn’t sure how much to tell him. “I’ve been lying low in Hogsmeade and I’m a bit short on funds. I was wondering if you’d be able to get me some potions ingredients? I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”

So. Even in her predicament she intended to keep brewing. He wouldn’t say he respected her determination, exactly, but it was something.

“Which ingredients do you need?”

Miss Corlett reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of parchment, smoothing it out with her hands as gave it to him. Snape held it up to his face and scanned the list of ingredients she'd made, pieces of a puzzle his long years of experience pieced together instantly.

“Wolfsbane, Polyjuice Potion, strychnine antidote,” he said, folding up the parchment and looking her straight in the eye. “A curious combination of potions.”

Miss Corlett shrugged it off as though she made them all the time. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot of demand for them now, Professor.”

“Particularly amongst certain organizations.”

Miss Corlett glanced away, but her startled expression told Snape everything he needed to know. He wondered why she’d even wanted to meet him in the first place. The Order must’ve been spitting out his name like a curse.

And that was another thing. What if this was all an elaborate ruse, if she was just there as bait and the rest of the Order were all lying in wait for the perfect moment to seize him? He raised his wand and the Corlett woman stepped back, looking wary. He wanted her to, and he didn't. The fledgling friendship they'd had before wasn't possible now.

"I will help you," he said. "Under one condition."

"What's that, Professor?"

"You will not tell anyone about this, or about me. Do I make myself plain?"

Miss Corlett looked taken aback, but she didn't protest. "I-yeah. Of course."

Snape raised his wand. "Swear it, then. Make an Unbreakable Vow."

Miss Corlett's face wrinkled in indignation. "An Unbreakable Vow? Are you mad?"

"I cannot risk anyone knowing about this-"

"So I have to risk popping my clogs if I slip up and say something by accident? Look, you saved my life, I haven't forgotten. If you don't want me telling anyone I won't. Promise."

Snape raised a skeptical eyebrow and Miss Corlett held up her right hand.

"I swear on Salazar Slytherin's grave I won't tell a soul, that good enough?"

Snape lowered his wand and considered this throwback to old school tradition. She was a Slytherin, same as he was; her loyalty was stronger than any high-minded ideals she may have had, if she had any at all. He'd helped her, she'd help him; that was her moral code, and she wouldn't break it. At least not until she found out what he'd done.

But in the meantime he might has well take her word for it. There wasn't anyone around to be the Bonder anyway. He doubted Dumbledore's portrait would count.

He slipped the ingredient list into his pocket. "Meet me here in three days' time. I'll have the ingredients ready for you then."

Miss Corlett's face relaxed. "Thank you, Professor. I appreciate this. And like I said, I'll pay you back when I can."

There was a time he would've appreciated her gratitude, her deferential tone. An epoch ago, when he was someone else. He didn't now. There was such a vast distance between the person she thought she was talking to and the person he really was it felt like mockery.

He kept his expression cold, appraising, as though she were a wayward student again. "I suggest you come up with a better disguise next time. Anyone could have seen you. You know how to Disillusion yourself, don't you?"

Miss Corlett's expression faltered. "Well, no actually. I can sort of do it, but not very well."

Hardly surprising, considering how poorly she'd done in Defense Against the Dark Arts. "Well, I suggest you learn."

"Right," she said under her breath, raising her eyebrows a bit as she turned to leave, as though he was proving himself to be every bit as ill-tempered as she thought he'd be. Just the reaction he'd hoped for. The less attached to him she was, the better.

"And one more thing," he said. She stopped and turned to face him.

"Meet me here at four o'clock in the morning. It'll still be dark and it’s far less likely you’ll be seen. You picked a poor time to meet. Hogsmeade must be full of people this time of day."

The Corlett woman glanced towards the village, fidgeting with her cloak in a nervous sort of way.

"I'll see you in three days then, Professor."

She threw the hooded cloak over her head and rushed towards the village, Snape following some distance behind. When he was sure she'd gotten there safely he swung out his arms and spun in the air, back to Spinner's End and a long sleep.

*

Snape hoped he'd be alone when he walked up the path to Malfoy Manor, but no, Yaxley had to appear alongside him, the prat.

"News?" said Yaxley. Snape couldn't tell if he was mocking him or trying to kiss his arse.

"The best," said Snape, with a tremendously smug expression. If he was going to do the thing, he might as well go all in and enjoy himself a bit. He thought Yaxley looked rather sulky, which amused him, as much as anything could amuse him when he was about to come face-to-face with the Dark Lord.

"Thought I might be late," Yaxley went on, and Snape wondered how he could’ve given the impression that he cared. "It was a little trickier than I expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your impression will be good?"

Yaxley gave him a sidelong glance, as though hoping to catch a bit of doubt there perhaps, but Snape just nodded and kept his expression smug, saying nothing in the hopes that Yaxley would take the hint and keep his trap shut.

And he did, for about two minutes.

"He always did himself well, Lucius," said Yaxley with a derisive snort as a beautiful albino bird ambled along the hedge. " _Peacocks_."

Snape refrained from muttering about sour grapes with great difficulty.

As though by some silent agreement they quickened their pace as they got nearer the manor, knowing they were cutting it rather fine. He hoped it'd be a short meeting. Sit down, give his report, make a plan of attack, go back to Spinner's End and sleep.

Snape walked into the drawing room and stopped short. Professor Burbage was hanging upside down above the table, eyes closed as though asleep. His own spell, and the Dark Lord was using it to dangle her like a piece of meat before they killed her. The old man must not have warned her in time.

"Yaxley. Snape. You are very nearly late."

_Nothing's happening. Just an ordinary meeting. Don't look up._

He didn't hear what the Dark Lord said but he didn't need to, he'd played this part before and he had it down pat. He sat down on the Dark Lord's right side.

_Nothing's happening._

"So?"

Snape snapped back to attention. Something about the boy, Saturday at nightfall...his mouth was moving but he didn't know what he’d said.

The Dark Lord was staring straight at him. Snape shut everything out, imagined he was hovering above the room.

"Good. Very good. And this information comes?"

He couldn’t put words to his thought, that the source was they very the man he thought he'd murdered, but he knew it, and it burned inside him. He kept his mind on Mundungus and the grubby little tavern in Tinworth where they’d met.

"From the source we discussed."

"My Lord," said Yaxley, in his boot-licking, nail-grating abberration of a voice. He half-listened to the conversation, waiting for his cues. Some business about the boy and the Ministry, blah blah blah he didn't give a shit, what if he just blasted them all into oblivion?

His eyes swept over the room a fraction of a second. There was only one exit, the doorway that led into the hall. The windows were low enough to climb through but he'd have to Vanish the glass, and then there was the obvious problem of the twenty or so people sitting there. He couldn't Stun or kill or Imperius them all. He could blow up the room but that had the rather inconvenient drawback of blowing up himself and Professor Burbage in the process.

There had to be some way...

"...Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we'll know immediately..."

His cue. He spoke his lines perfectly, and the Dark Lord answered.

Someone screamed from below the floor, a desperate unreal sound.

_I'm not here. This isn't happening._

"Wormtail? Have I not spoken to you about keeping our prisoner quiet?"

He wasn't there with this Wormtail, this prisoner; he'd just fallen through a Pensieve into someone's bad dream. He was hovering somewhere above the room, looking down. The Dark Lord was asking for a wand and insulting Lucius, who was sweating. Narcissa was staring at the wall as though she were afraid the Dark Lord would look at her and Draco's eyes were wide and staring. Ah. So this was Lucius' bad dream.

His theory was confirmed when the Dark Lord announced that the werewolf had married Nymphadora, something that seemed perfectly calculated to cause Lucius agony. Snape would've been annoyed himself, it this were real. Idiots. They deserved each other.

Someone groaned from above him. He wondered how Professor Burbage could've gotten into Lucius' bad dream, he didn't like her much, even though Draco never took any of her classes.

"Do you recognize our guest Severus?"

He expected his Pensieve-self to answer, but there wasn't one. So this wasn't a memory, it was theatre, and he'd just gotten his cue. Time to play his part. He looked up at the revolving woman.

"Severus! Help me!"

She really was an extraordinary actress. Her terror sounded absolutely genuine.

Snape waited until he couldn't see her face. "Ah yes," he said.

There were more lines and more gestures. The woman playing the part of Professor Burbage turned to face them again.

"Severus...please...please..."

S _everus...please..._ he'd heard that line before, somewhere else.

The Dark Lord delivered his monologue, his delivery so tense with controlled anger Snape knew they were building towards the final act. The woman playing Professor Burbage spun slowly away and when her back was turned the Dark Lord raised his wand.

" _Avada Kedavra_!"

The visual effects were extraordinary. The room was filled with green light and the woman playing Professor Burbage crashed to the table below without even flinching, as though she were really dead. The boy playing Draco jumped out of his chair.

"Dinner, Nagini."

The snake's movements were so natural, so lifelike that Snape couldn't watch, it was too real. There must've been a trapdoor under the stage or maybe some stagehands had come to pull her away, because the woman playing Professor Burbage vanished.

No one said a word, even the woman playing Bellatrix was staring at the place she'd been, nose wrinkled as though she'd seen something distasteful.

The Dark Lord was gazing at the prop snake, which was slinking away under the table.

“Were it always so easy,” he said, almost to himself. He looked round at them all. “Now then. We make our plans.”

Snape played his part flawlessly.

That night when he got back to Spinner’s End he was so sick he threw up, and he didn’t know why.

*

The room was so dark when Snape woke up he couldn't tell if his eyes were open. He wondered what time it was. He had a nagging feeling that he was supposed to be doing something, but he couldn’t think what.

His stomach hurt so badly he couldn’t get back to sleep. He got up and went down to the kitchen to fix himself a glass of ginger-water, an old Muggle remedy his mother used to make to settle his stomach. There wasn’t much sky visible outside his window, just a sliver along the edges of the houses across the street, the deep blue of early morning. So there was plenty of time left to sleep and not think.

He’d had the water disconnected years ago, to make the house easier to maintain, no need for him to worry about leaks or pipes freezing in the winter or strangers coming into his house for repairs. He filled his glass with a water-making charm and sprinkled some ginger into it and took a long drink. When he was finished he set his glass down on the grimy countertop next to an assortment of jars and vials he'd prepared the day before-and then he remembered. The Corlett woman's ingredients. Why the hell had he agreed to drag his arse out of bed at this ungodly hour?

He Summoned his watch from upstairs, a gift from his mother when he'd come of age. It'd been brand new when she got if for him, with a 10-carat gold wristband and a midnight blue face that showed the twelve constellations of the zodiac. He'd found it at the foot of his bed in the Slytherin dormitory, along with handwritten note from his mother, the letters loopy and slanting as though her hand was about to fly off the page in her excitement. As though a bloody piece of jewelry could make up for years of rummaging through bare cupboards for his meals and sitting alone in his room and wincing as his father's hand struck him and his mother just stood there and looked on because _everyone in Spinner's End does it_ and _deep down your father loves you_. As though he were going off to live out her dream of becoming an illustrious potioneer and he didn't have a Dark Mark on his arm.

He'd thrown it against the wall and left it there until his very last day of Hogwarts, when he picked it up and dusted it off and slipped it into his pocket. The glass face was cracked but it still worked.

He slipped it onto his right arm and checked the time; quarter after four, but she’d probably be late anyway so it didn’t matter. He put a few charms on the vials and jars so they wouldn’t break and put them into the pockets of his robes, which he’d slept in, and stepped outside the front door to Apparate.

He stopped spinning right in front of the boar’s gate, expecting she’d be waiting, but there wasn’t anyone there. She had some nerve, showing up so late when he'd dragged himself out of bed especially for her. He checked his watch again. He'd give her exactly one minute, and then he was going back to Spinner's End and she could find some other fool to stand around and wait in the dark.

Snape didn't know that he was a morning person-his tendency to stay up too late reading or making potions often got in the way of him getting up early-but he thought this might be his favourite time of the day, this deep still quiet, when the moon was low and the birds were alseep and trees whispered to each other, free from the prying ears of people. The perfect time to be alone and not lonely.

Something about that warm damp air brought him back to the year before, after Minerva had come back from St. Mungo's, when she liked to go for walks in the grounds with Professor Sprout. Surrounding herself with nature helped her forget what was happening, she'd said. Snape had joined them a few times, and they'd run into Hagrid or Madam Hooch or Professor Burbage or someone.

The realisation struck him with so much force he was sick. She was never going to walk up this path again, and he'd just sat there, he hadn't done anything.

But it was all for the greater good, wasn't it, that's what the old man would say, there was nothing he could've done, it'd all work out in the end. Snape envied him, that he could be so rational, so _that's-just-the-way-it-goes_ about it all, why couldn't he do the same? Why did he even care?

He started and clutched his wand at the sound of muffled footsteps running down the path and in the dim light he saw Miss Corlett, the hooded cloak draped over her head and her robes trailing across the ground.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” she panted. She pulled back her hood and studied his face. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure-"

"I said I'm fine!" he snapped. She thought her pity would touch him, she had no idea what it was like, who he was.

"I was just asking," she said, a slight edge to her voice. "There's no need for you to bite my head off."

The blood rushed to Snape's head and he couldn't see straight, couldn't think. Why had she done this, why had she made him come here, he just wanted to sleep and not think.

"Erm, Professor?"

Snape started again. Merlin, why was he acting so jumpy in front of her? "What?"

"Do you have the ingredients?"

He reached into the pocket of his robes and thrust the sack of ingredients at her.

"Thank you," said Miss Corlett, tucking the sack into her robes. Snape clenched his jaw and screwed up his eyes to keep anything from coming out.

Miss Corlett's expression was much too knowing. "Listen, I'm sorry I was late, I can see this is a bad time for you."

Snape wasn't about to let her feel sorry for him. He narrowed his eyes at her. "You should be sorry. Do you think I enjoy getting up at four in the morning?"

Miss Corlett raised her eyebrows. "You mean you're not a morning person? I never would have guessed."

She'd made him come all the way out here and now she was standing there _teasing_ him of all things, what did she think this was, a nice little reunion with her old mentor, swapping potions advice and light-hearted banter, as though she weren't on the run from an old Death Eater friend and he hadn't just watched his colleague die?

"I suggest you get going. It'll be getting light soon and I see you still haven't managed a Disillusionment Charm."

"Right," she said, pulling her hood back over her head. She hesitated, fidgeting in a way that told him she was about to say something she didn't think he'd want to hear.

"Listen," she said. "If you ever need anything from me, or if just need to talk, I'm always around. I'm not going anywhere for awhile."

The pity again. Snape scowled. "And why would I need anything from you?"

"Oh, that's right, I forgot, you shun human contact, don't you?"

Well. Now she was just being sarcastic, but he liked it better than her sympathy. He could play this game.

"When said contact is annoying as you, yes."

Miss Corlett's mouth opened slightly. "You were never this rude to me during my detentions."

"One of my great regrets in life."

"I suppose that's why you're trying so hard now?"

"I've barely even started."

Miss Corlett smirked. "You know, for someone with absolutely no sense of humour you're sort of funny, you know that?"

There was no getting through to her, apparently. "Get going," he said.

"Yeah, alright, I’m going,” muttered Miss Corlett, adjusting her hood so it covered up most of her face. "Thanks again. I appreciate this."

He watched as she hurried down the path to Hogsmeade, her wand held out in front of her, head turning in every direction. When she’d disappeared from sight he leaned against the gate and let out an enormous yawn. Maybe next time he could send her the ingredients by owl.

*

The Malfoy’s front garden looked like a Quidditch pitch just before the start of a match. The best fliers and a few poor bastards they’d Imperiused were gathered there, polishing their broom handles and putting on gloves to protect their hands from the cold.

“Bet it’ll feel good to get on a broom again, eh?” said Amycus Carrow, clapping Rowle on the back.

Snape wondered if he could get away with blasting Rowle off his broom in mid-air. Probably not, but if the opportunity presented itself he would.

He walked over to the edge of the garden, holding his broomstick in front of him, and stood next to Draco, who was clutching his racing broom and staring into space. Draco was like his father, the way he tightened up his face to keep anything from showing, but Snape could see the fear in his eyes. He was a skilled flier, and if God forbid things went to plan he'd be rewarded well, but Snape wondered if this was another punishment for Lucius and Narcissa, forcing them to wait while their son went on another dangerous mission.

"I know them," said Snape. "They won't shoot to kill. Likely they'll be using Stunning Spells and Impediment Jinxes. A Shield Charm will be enough to block them, understand?"

Draco nodded.

"Stay close to the others," Snape went on. "If you're knocked off your broom they'll try to help you, and if you should fall off don't panic. Just Summon your broom as quickly as you can.

Draco swallowed hard and stared off into space again.

Snape mounted his broom and waited for the Dark Lord’s signal. He’d dreamed of flying ever since his mother told him about it. He used to sit on the front stoop of his house in Spinner’s End and imagine flying over the rooftops with Lily, to someplace far away, where there were trees and living things. The first time he’d ever ridden a broom it’d bucked him off and everyone had laughed at him, but Lily took him to the school shed that night and they’d broken in and gone flying around the grounds. He was rather good at it, when no one was watching.

The Dark Lord gave the go-ahead and they pulled up their hoods and rose into the air. The sun was sinking lower in the sky and the air was golden, the rivers like silver ribbons. He imagined it was just another evening, just a long solo flight, the kind he liked to take every now and then.

An hour or so passed before night fell and the towns and fields and forests gave way to rows and rows of identical-looking houses on orderly streets and cul-du-sacs. Almost time. He had to stay present, had to protect the boy. There was no way of knowing which one of them was him. He wasn’t likely to be on a broom, that’s what everyone would expect.

They were gaining on someone. He couldn't tell who it was at first, but as they got closer he recognized the mop of greying brown hair and patched-up robes. Lupin, with one of the Potters, whether the real one or a decoy he didn't know. The latter seemed more likely, they'd expect him to be on a broom with his father’s old friend.

He wasn't sure who was flying next to him, Dolohov maybe, but whoever it was raised their wand and pointed it directly at Lupin's back.

There was no question of whether or not to save him. Snape reacted instinctively, pointing his wand and muttering the first incantation that popped into his head.

 _"Sectumsempra!_ "

The Potter on the broom winced as the blood poured out of his ear. Lupin put one hand to his head to try and stave the bleeding, but the broom swerved and jerked so much they slipped and Lupin had to snatch his hand away and right them.

 _Fuck_. He'd know perfectly well who'd done it, and what was just as bad Dolohov or whoever it was would've figured it out too, if he'd hit his mark. He didn't know why he'd even used that spell in the first place. Was he too much of a coward to knock a fellow Death Eater off their broom?

But he'd bought them some time, at least. They were flying so haphazardly Dolohov's next curse missed.

He pulled ahead, thinking he might make as though he were about to curse them, when his mark burned. _He had the boy._

Snape had no idea where any of them were, they were spread out over a hundred miles at least, but his Mark acted as a sort of homing device, and as he lifted his hands off his broom and spun into the air he kept his mind on the Dark Lord.

When he stopped spinning he was still on his broom, flying low over a small village, the air loud with the rumble of a motorbike and Potter's shouts.

The Dark Lord turned to whoever it was next to him.

"Your wand Selwyn, give me your wand!"

He lifted the borrowed wand and Snape lifted his own, ready to curse him into oblivion, even though he knew it wouldn't work, he couldn't die, not yet anyway.

And then Potter and the motorbike vanished, and the Dark Lord was thrown back as though he'd hit an invisible wall-which, in a sense, he had. He screamed, a shrill, unbearable sound, like a knife scraping against metal.

The others fell back, arms stretched out to Disapparate, and Snape waited a few minutes and did the same.

He thought the Dark Lord might be shouting at everyone, but the silence inside the manor was ear-splitting. Snape rolled his head around to loosen the tense muscles and strode into the drawing room with a scowl on his face, every thud of his boots a reprimand. The entire room went still as everyone stepped back to make room for him. He loved this, the way his presence could chill a room like a cold draught.

Lucius pulled him aside. "Potter got away?" he murmured.

"Unfortunately."

"Shit."

Lucius' disappointment was jarring, like a wrong note in a song. They'd had their differences over the years, but nothing that amounted to being on opposite sides of a war-not even during first one, when his only mission was to keep Lily safe. He hadn't really cared then, who won.

Selwyn stepped closer to the window, where the Dark Lord was standing with hands behind his back. He must’ve wanted his wand back, the fool.

"My Lord-"

"Do not interrupt the Dark Lord while he is thinking, Selwyn!"

Selwyn stepped back in alarm at this sudden use of the third-person.

The Dark Lord ran a dour finger along Nagini's back and sank down in a chair, staring into the fire. Ah, so he was brooding. He'd be at it for hours likely, the perfect opportunity to get the hell out of there.

Snape pulled out his traveling cloak and draped it over his shoulders.

"Going back to Spinner's End?" said Lucius.

Snape nodded and strode out of the manor to Disapparate.

*

Grimmauld Place was leering at him. He could hear all those all recent conversations echoing around the house, about what a traitor he was, what a coward, all the _how could he_ and _I thought I knew him_ , as if they had, as if anyone had known him. As if he hadn't just risked everything to save Lupin's ungrateful arse.

And that was another thing-why the hell had he even done it? Was he turning into the boy, a reckless fool always trying to play the hero? Oh, but Potter was so _brave,_ so _noble,_ wasn't he, never mind that he was just showing off, and what was Snape, the villain in the shadows, and not even the entertaining kind, he was the ugly villain, the kind everyone patted themselves on the back for hating.

Snape knew he couldn't just walk in, the Order wasn't going to make it that easy for him. He opened the door and raised his wand, readying himself for whatever it was.

He nearly shouted out loud. A ghostly grey figure had risen out of the carpet, speaking with Dumbledore's voice.

"Severus Snape?"

Of course they would do this, they'd force this judgment on him, hit right where it hurt. Snape did his best to ignore the voice, closing his eyes and wracking his brains for a way past it.

He tried a few counter-curses but none of them worked, and he'd known they wouldn't, they wouldn't make it that easy. What would've been going through their minds when they made the cursed figure? Self-righteous fury, that's what. Because of course _they'd_ never kill an unarmed man, that was for scum like him.

"I didn't kill you."

The dust figure swept over him, swallowing him up, eating him alive, and he didn't fight it because he deserved to go like this. He had killed him.

And then it was gone. Grimmauld Place was silent, pitch black, empty. Before Snape could light any of the lamps something toppled to the ground and the portrait on the wall started screaming.

"SHUT _UP_!" He pulled his wand from out of his pocket and blasted it with a curse. The house went quiet again.

" _Lumos_."

He knew there wouldn't be anything on the lower floors; Black would've wanted to hide every trace of her from his parents. But he had to make sure.

He made his way to the first floor. He opened every drawer and every cupboard and every wardrobe he saw. He looked under rugs and moved furntiture and did Summoning spell after Summoning spell. Nothing. He searched the second and third floors. Still nothing, just an enchanted mouse trap under one of the sofas that tried to rip his head off. There had to be something, he had to find something. He couldn't leave here without her.

He'd been up to the fourth floor a few times, the summer he learned to Apparate and he'd go visit Regulus. They used to sit up in his room, sneaking smokes and coming up with ways to piss off Sirius. Snape pushed his door open.

He doubted there'd be anything there, but he had to check. He couldn't leave her there. He opened drawers, looked under the bed and the rug, found diary entries and letters from Rosier and Crouch and a photograph of Regulus he slipped into his pocket, but Lily wasn't there.

Snape slammed an old textbook against the wall and watched the binding come loose. Only one room left.

Black hadn't seen the doe, Snape would've killed the man himself, rather than let him see her. He'd seen only a shapeless ball of light that spoke with his voice, but even a ball of light was more than any Death Eater could manage.

_And did you know then, you bastard? Did you know I was on your side all along? Did you know I was trying to save your life, you cruel fuck?_

She had to be here. He wrenched open drawers, lifted the bed, tossed aside rubbish and books. He pulled open the wardrobe.

The boy was lying on the floor covered in blood, eyes wide and staring, and Lily was standing above him, crying. She raised her head to him.

"You failed."

His hand was shaking so hard he could barely hold it steady. " _Riddikulus_."

"How could you _?_ "

" _Riddikulus. RIDDIKULUS!_ "

The figure vanished. Snape collapsed on the floor, spent, drained, useless.

" _Get up._ "

He opened his eyes and pushed himself up off the floor. She was trying to tell him something. She was here, he just hadn't found her yet.

He rummaged through the parchment on the floor until he saw the black letters. Lily's voice preserved in ink. He brought it to his face and studied those words, tracing them with his hands, holding it up to his nose. The parchment didn't smell like her anymore, but her hands had touched it. He breathed it in.

She'd been celebrating the boy's birthday. He'd gotten a toy broom. Her ink-preserved voice met the beads of water from his own eyes, blotching the parchment. He turned to the next page.

_Lots of Love,_

_Lily_

She'd meant for him to find this. He tucked those last words into the pocket of his robes to carry with him.

There was more of her here, she'd mentioned a photograph. He dug into the pile of papers on the floor, scattering them about until he found it. She was laughing just the way he'd seen her laugh so many times, frozen in time, not knowing what would happen to her. Always laughing.

He tore her out of the photograph, tossing the rest aside because he couldn't look at them, because he needed her too much to let her stay with them. She was all he had left.

He slumped down against a wall and closed his eyes. The house was silent except for the faint scurrying of some creature behind the skirting board, and in the stillness he thought of Miss Corlett, and the sound of her voice, and he didn’t know why. He pushed the thought away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a Snape and Graihagh chapter but it's already almost 10k and I'm not finished with it yet, so I thought I'd better split it up. My goal of having this not be too long is crumbling, I hope you like slow burns XD
> 
> I made a very tiny change to chapter 4 to explain how Graihagh still has her wand (Milo gives it to her) just in case anyone was wondering :)
> 
> Thanks so much for all the love you've shown this, and Vulnera Sanentur <3


	7. Chapter 7

Graihagh could never tell what time it was when she woke up, there were no windows in the hidden room and no clock on the wall. The lamp she’d set in the corner cast a warm circle of light on the ceiling but otherwise the room was dark.

She lifted her arm from under her head and checked the watch her dad had given when she'd come of age. The strap was made from dragonhide and the face was deep blue and covered in stars and constellations that lit up in the dark. She hardly ever took it off.

She pressed a button to light the watch face and saw it was quarter after nine, not that it really meant anything, she didn’t have anywhere to go.

She looked over at Milo, still asleep on his mattress. He’d had another restless night and Fynn had talked him down from a nightmare and fallen asleep beside him on his mattress, an arm draped over his stomach. She wouldn't say she was jealous of Fynn exactly, but she and Milo had been taking care of each other so long she felt adrift, as though she'd wandered into the room with them by accident.

More than anything though, she was relieved. Their first day in hiding Milo had woken up a few more times, as dazed and disoriented as a sleepwalker, and they’d had to talk him back into a troubled sleep. Graihagh hadn't slept at all that night, she was so sure they'd lost him, but when he woke up the next day he recognized them, and Graihagh had been able to explain what happened and where they were.

Ever since then he'd been-restless was the only word for it, really. He'd get up and pace the room awhile, then sit back down and stare at the wall, and then with a twitch like a horse shaking off a fly he'd get up and pace the room again. Fynn tried to cheer him up, get his mind on other things. They'd gone into Hogsmeade a few times, to get him books and a sketchpad and some pencils and a copy of the _Prophet_ , though with all the coverage of Dumbledore's death it was rather depressing.

Milo skimmed the books, halfheartedly attempted a few sketches, and resumed his pacing and thinking and the occasional panic attack.

He looked so peaceful now that Graihagh wanted to stay in bed and keep quiet, but she really did need to get to work. Remus said they'd take the potions as quickly as she could make them.

She bunged her pyjamas into a corner and threw on a set of plain black work robes. The jars of ingredients Professor Snape had gotten for her were lined up along her makeshift work table, along with a set of brass scales and a mortar and pestle and everything else she needed.

She’d had a time of it, creating a workspace in that dim, dusty room. Her third day there she'd pushed a few large boxes together for a table, brushing off the dust and the cobwebs, and borrowed a few knives from Aberforth for slicing stems and roots. Graihagh and Milo couldn't access their Gringott's accounts, and Fynn was almost broke after buying new clothes for them , so Aberforth had given her one of his, made of pewter. The cauldron was only as good as the potioneer, that's what Professor Snape had said once when her school cauldron got rusty and she couldn't afford a new one, but she was going to have a hard time making something as complex and delicate as Wolfsbane in a pewter cauldron. Every step would have to be perfect.

Aberforth had given her a few lamps to set on her work table so she'd have enough light to see by, and when she flicked her wand and got them going the room was as bright as day. There was no way Milo and Fynn were to be able to sleep through it, but it was probably better for them anyway to have some sort of routine.

She slipped on a pair of dragonhide gloves and pinched a vial of rattlesnake venom between her fingers, swirling it around the glass and watching the amber liquid catch the light. She couldn't believe she'd almost turned down an opportunity to make potions, it was like breathing, she needed it.

Science had been her favourite subject back in the days before she knew she was a witch. She liked it so much her dad had bought her a chemistry set for her eleventh birthday and she’d been holed up in her room with it that day Professor McGonagall showed up on their doorstep and turned their world upside-down. She'd abandoned her plans to blow up chemicals in a lab but she still liked to read the Muggle science magazines, and that’s how she found out about the pain-relieving properties of rattlesnake venom.

She’d been so excited about it she’d put in an order for ten vials at work the next morning, only the stuff wasn't cheap and Owain nearly fired her before swearing up and down he was going to make her go out into the field and collect it herself. When he'd finally calmed down and she'd explained what it was for he'd gotten as excited as she was, and they'd spent hours experimenting.

She decided to start on the strychnine antidote first, since it was the simplest and she was still waking up. She uncapped the vial of rattlesnake venom and piped into the cauldron, lighting a fire underneath and murmuring a long incantation under her breath. She never used the whole venom, it was too toxic; instead she extracted the pain-relieving compound. This wasn’t a necessary step, it wasn’t even in the offical recipe, but strychnine poisoning was extraordinary painful and the antidote was slow-acting. If she could add something to take away the victim’s pain, she would, even if it created extra work for her. She loved this part of potioneering, these individual touches and subtle tweaks.

When the pain-relieving compound had been extracted she prepared the rest of the ingedients, crushing and measuring and stirring, delighting in the movements, the scents, the _realness_ of it. When it looked the way it should she lowered the heat, recording the exact time on a sheet of parchment, and sat down to rest on an upturned crate.

Milo twitched and murmured in his sleep and Graihagh hoped he was just dreaming, but when his eyes opened he was breathing hard and staring up at the ceiling.

Fynn propped themself up on one elbow and put a hand to his shoulder. "'S'alright," they said. "Just a dream. You're safe now."

"I know," breathed Milo. He closed his eyes and steadied himself and when he'd calmed down he sat up and looked over at Graihagh.

"You're up early,” he said.

Graihagh smirked, trying to keep things the way they'd been at home, before all this had happened. "It's eleven o'clock, you lazy cunt."

Milo smirked back and she thought he might make a snappy retort but his expression turned serious. "Don't suppose it matters," he muttered. He stood up and stretched and went to the little side room he'd made for them to wash in.

Graihagh didn't know what it was-maybe his quiet intensity, or his restlessless, or maybe it was just that she knew him so well, but she could tell something was about to happen, that things were about to come to a head. She took off her gloves and picked at her nails and waited for him to come back out.

Fynn turned towards Graihagh and stretched.

"Sleep alright?" they said.

"Yeah, did you?" Graihagh realised as soon as she'd said it that it was a stupid question, because they'd been up half the night with Milo.

Fynn shot her an incredulous grin. "What do you think?"

"Shut it you," said Graihagh, but she smiled back. Fynn was growing on her. They'd known Milo for a couple of years, but this was by far the most time she'd ever spent with them.

Fynn sat up on the mattress, looking serious. "Do you think he'll be alright?"

Graihagh leaned back against the wall and sighed. "I don't know. He's already been through so much. I feel like one of these times he's bound to reach his breaking point, you know?"

“I know. I’ve been worrying about that too.”

The door opened and Milo walked into the room, bare-chested and flushed from the hot water. Fynn stared at him a full five seconds before glancing away, but Milo didn’t notice. He walked over to one of the outside walls and stared at it as though a window might appear there.

"Alright yessir?" said Fynn.

Milo turned around to face them but he didn't sit down. "I'm not staying here.”

"What do you mean?" said Graihagh.

"I mean I'm going to find Rowle. And I'm going to kill him."

Graihagh glanced at Fynn, who looked every bit as alarmed as she felt. "Look," she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice, to be understanding, because if she got too pushy he'd only dig his heels in. "I know what he did was-it was fucking evil, but you can't just go and kill him, Milo, he's a Death Eater."

"So?"

"So he's got a whole pack of homicidal friends he can use as backup. He'll kill you."

"Then at least I'll go down fighting. I'm sick of hiding. All I've ever done is hide."

Graihagh stood up and put a hand to his arm. "Look, I want revenge too, believe me, but this isn't the way to do it-"

"What's the alternative? We just sit here in this little room and wait for someone else fight him for us?"

"Well..." That had been her plan exactly, but she knew Milo wouldn't want to hear it, and she couldn't think of anything better.

"Well, I'm sorry, but fuck that. I'm going."

Graihagh's voice was rising now, and she couldn't keep the fear out of it. "But you can't just go, you need a plan-"

"I have a plan. I know where he is."

"You can't just walk into Malfoy Manor and kill him, this is mad-"

Milo snatched his arm away. "You don't think I can do it, is that it?"

"I-" Graihagh looked helplessly at Fynn. Milo was a skilled dueler, he'd always done well in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but this was a suicide mission.

"Actually, it's not a bad idea," said Fynn, and Milo’s expression relaxed. "But she's right, you need a plan," they added, when Graihagh glared at them.

"So you want me to sit around here in this cramped little room for months on end while Rowle walks free, is that it?" said Milo, and his voice was breaking, face strained, skin stretched thin like a rubber band about to snap. "While he's out there killing and torturing how many innocent people because we just sat there and let him?"

"We are going to stop him," said Fynn, and their voice was earnest, almost urgent. "But if we don't have a plan and they kill you, what have you accomplished? He still walks free and you're dead."

“Then at least I tried. Unlike you two.” He walked over to his mattress and for a second Graihagh thought he might sit there, talk it over with them more until he calmed down, but instead he knelt beside it and stuffed his clothes and books into a holdall Fynn had bought for him. When he’d closed it up he threw a set of plain robes over himself and slung the holdall over his shoulder.

He walked away without another word to them, but when he reached the door he stopped, his hand on the doorknob. Graihagh wondered if he could feel her eyes on him, begging him not to go.

“Yeah,” he said, as though steeling himself. “Right. Take care, both of you. And thanks for everything.”

His eyes met Graihagh’s and she ran to the door.

“Don’t do this-"

Milo held up a hand to stop her. “Don’t make this difficult.”

She flattened herself against the door as though she could barricade them from the outside world. "You're not leaving."

Milo scowled. "You can't keep me here."

"Yes I can."

"How? You can't stand there all the time."

"Watch me."

And she meant it, she'd live beside that door if she had to, sleep standing up.

"Get out of the way, Graihagh."

"No."

Milo's voice rose. "You're not my fucking mother. Now _get of of my way_."

"You are not going."

Milo reached for his wand and Fynn strode over and stood between them. "Listen, what if I went with you? We could lay low awhile, come up with a plan. I know some people who could help us. That sound good to you?"

Graihagh couldn't believe what she was hearing. She thought Fynn would protect Milo, and here they were offering to accompany him into the dragon's den, the traitorous little shit.

"Yeah," said Milo, still red-faced and breathing fast. "That'd be alright."

Fynn put a hand to his shoulder and turned to Graihagh. "You?"

"I think you're both mad."

"Yeah, well, I'm afraid you're outnumbered," said Milo.

Graihagh glared at Fynn, who rubbed the back of their neck and didn't look at her. She could try to take them both on but she knew she didn't stand a chance, not with Milo hell-bent on going. She threw up her hands and stepped away from the door, eyes stinging. "Fine. Go get yourselves killed."

Milo walked out the door without another word to her. Graihagh waited until he was out of earshot and stepped towards Fynn.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, offering to go with him? Do you _want_ to see him get killed?"

Fynn backed away, looking indignant. "Of course not. I'm trying to help him."

"If you were trying to help him you wouldn't let him go in the first place."

"We can't stop him from going. He's a grown man, he can make up his own mind."

"But that's just it. He's not in his right mind, you know that."

"I'm not so sure. I think deep down he's been wanting to do this a long time."

Graihagh bristled at the suggestion that Fynn knew Milo better than she did. "How would you know?"

Fynn glanced away and shrugged. "I just have a feeling. Look, I know when he's just saying things out of anger or panic and when he's not. I think he's given this a lot of thought."

Graihagh made a skeptical noise and paced the room while Fynn packed a few things into a battered leather valise. She was too upset to ask just what it was they planned to do.

"Don't worry about us," said Fynn, putting a hand to Graihagh's shoulder. "We'll be alright."

Graihagh snatched her arm away and faced the wall, fighting the urge to curse the shit out of them, but when Fynn opened the door she turned around.

"Wait.”

She grabbed a few bottles of calming draught off the shelf and handed them to Fynn. "Just promise me you'll look after him."

Fynn tucked the bottles away and their face softened into something like sympathy. "I will."

Graihagh nodded to them in a go-if-you-must way, and Fynn walked out the door, leaving her with her potions and her work table and the three empty mattresses.

*

Those first few days on her own weren't so bad. She threw herself into her work, finishing the antidote and a batch of Wolfsbane and building up a supply of other potions the Order might need, like Blood-Replenishing Solution and Veritaserum, which were sitting on a shelf maturing. She worked until she was too tired to see straight and slept as late as she wanted, to the point where she lost track of day and night. She knew she'd feel better if she kept to a regular schedule, but it was hard to do with no one forcing her.

Aberforth sent food up a few times a day and told her she could Summon a bit of fruit or bread from the kitchen whenever she liked, as long as she didn't take too much. He hadn't said anything about Summoning drinks, so sometimes when her work was done she'd sit and drink until she was tired and dizzy, but she never slept well after, even with the Sleeping Draughts she took sometimes so she wouldn't stay up half the night worrying over Milo, or fall asleep to a nightmare.

The worst times were when she had no work left to do, or when she woke up in the middle of the night or morning or whenever it was she went to sleep. She finally mastered the Disillusionment Charm and she'd gotten a few books from Fynn, but other than that there was nothing to do, only the room and the quiet and her own thoughts. Sometimes the walls would close in and she'd get dizzy and pace the room and pray Aberforth would find her before she suffocated, or Rowle burst into the room and killed her. And then it would pass and she'd sink on her mattress, shaky and spent.

Sometimes she'd think about sneaking off to some Muggle town for something to help her forget, or she'd search through the pockets of her jeans even though there wasn't anything there, and it scared her, this craving, this _need_. She'd always been careful about what she took and when, or thought she had. Aside from the occasional tablet at a party or a rave that made everything lovely and left her feeling like shit for days after, she avoided the hard stuff, it reminded her too much of her mother and Milo's father. But she hadn't really seen the danger in medicating every now and then, getting outside her own head awhile, and now that she had time to think she had the horrible feeling that if it weren't for her potions, she'd be in deep shit. If she felt sick after the pills wore off she could make herself something for it, something safer, but some people didn't have a choice, they just had to take more.

She wondered if things had been like that for her mother, if that's how she got sucked in. She didn't deserve it, whatever horrible things she might've done.

Her dad had given her all his photographs of her, not long after he met Emma. Graihagh's face wasn't as soft as her mother's-she would've killed for those full, pouty lips-but they were so much alike she might've been looking at herself.

Her mum looked calm and happy in those early photographs. Graihagh's favourite was the one taken just after she was born. She was wrapped in a white blanket and her mum was lying in bed and holding her to her chest, smiling down on her like she was the only thing in the world.

There was another photograph that must've been taken just before she left. Graihagh was sitting in her high-chair, dressed down to a t-shirt and nappy and covered in chocolate cake, her first birthday probably. Her dad was watching her and laughing but her mum was looking off to the side as though it were all too much for her.

Her dad said they'd lived in Liverpool and Graihagh had tried to find her there once, but she wasn't in the telephone directory and no one seemed to know her. She steeled herself for the worst and even looked for a burial record, but couldn't find a thing. She'd just disappeared, which is probably what she wanted, and just as well. Graihagh had no idea what she would’ve said to her, if she would’ve said anything.

Graihagh thought she'd dreamt about her but it was hard to tell, her head was a mess and she'd slept like shit. She'd just reached up to grab a vial of sleeping draught when there was a knock at the door.

"Someone here to see you," said Aberforth's voice.

Graihagh checked her watch. It was only eleven o'clock at night but she'd gone to bed hours ago.

"Be right there," she called. She threw on a set of robes over her pyjamas and ran a hand through her hair, though what she thought that would accomplish she had no idea.

She opened the door to find Remus standing there in blood-splattered robes, his hair standing up on end. She jumped back before she could stop herself. This was a trap, the moon was full and any second he was going to transform and rip her throat out.

"May I come in?" he asked. There was an edge to his tired voice.

Graihagh opened her mouth but nothing came out.

"The moon isn't full for another week," said Remus, and the edge in his voice had grown to full-blown irritation.

"Yeah. Come in," said Graihagh, opening the door the rest of the way. She stepped back towards the box beside her bed where she kept her wand.

Remus either didn't notice or didn't say anything about it. "I was wondering if the Wolfsbane is ready?"

Graihagh had been so startled she'd completely forgotten about it. Of course that's why he'd come.

"Yeah, I've got two months' worth of doses ready for you."

She hurried over to her worktable and picked up two bottles, which she handed to Remus.

"Thank you," he said. He pulled a goblet out of his robes and poured some of the potion into it. "I need to take the first dose straightaway," he explained. So it was the beginning of August, she thought, or maybe the end of July.

"How much do I owe you?" he said when he'd finished drinking.

"You don't have to pay me," said Graihagh, a gesture that was half gratitude, half desire for him to get out of there as quickly as possible.

"No, I insist," said Remus, reaching into the pocket of his robes. "Just name your price."

Graihagh wondered if this was a way for him to save face, maintain a sense of dignity. She would've felt the same way.

"How about 10 galleons then?" said Graihagh. "It's what we charge out our shop."

Remus raised his eyebrows. "That's a low price."

"Owain-he's my employer-sells it at a discount."

"He must be taking a loss on it then. The ingredients cost about three times that much."

Graihagh had always wondered about that herself, but it didn't surprise her. Owain had a soft-spot for people in need, he never turned anyone away. What she didn't understand was why the potion was so expensive in the first place.

"Why doesn't the Ministry cover some of the costs? You'd think they'd want people to take it."

Remus' mouth lifted in a wry smile. "You'd think. But I suppose they'd have fewer excuses to fear us."

And she was no better. She picked at the sleeve of her robes. "Listen, I'm sorry about the way I've acted."

"It's alright."

"No, it's not. I was being a prat."

Remus' mouth twitched and Graihagh supposed he'd been thinking the same thing, only he was much too polite to say so.

"No worries," he said. "I'm just glad to have the potion." He counted out ten galleons and slipped his wallet back into his pocket. "Do you have anything else ready?"

"Oh. Right. Of course." Graihagh picked up her wand and Summoned all the bottles of potions she'd made, lowering them into a wooden crate.

"You've been busy," said Remus when she handed it to him. He sounded surprised, impressed even. She supposed it would sound melodramatic to tell him it was the only thing keeping her sane.

"Just let me know when you need more."

"I will. Thank you." Remus charmed the crate to shrink and put it in his pocket. "I should be going. I told my wife I wouldn't be long."

"Your wife?" said Graihagh, cringing at the surprise in her voice. Her resolve not to be an ass had lasted all of two minutes.

"Surprising thought it may seem, we have been known to marry," said Remus in that pleasantly dry way that seemed instinctual, as though it had long been his go-to response to slights of this kind.

"Of course," said Graihagh, though she was dying to know where he'd been and what he'd been doing. Something for the Order, by the looks of it. She'd been stupid to think he'd transformed. "I’m sorry. I won't keep you. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Graihagh closed the door behind him and sat back down on her mattress. She sort of wish he could’ve stayed longer, the room was so quiet.

*

Until Remus showed up she hadn’t realised just how far her sleeping and eating had gotten of track, and she decided she'd better get back into a routine. She wasn’t all that tired but she stopped working at three in the morning, and when she’d settled into bed she set the alarm on her watch for ten. This wasn't quite what it'd been when before, but it was a start.

She got to work as soon as she woke up and she’d been working a couple of hours when there was a knock on the door.

"I've got your lunch," said Aberforth.

Graihagh took her gloves off and opened the door for him. He handed her a tray of hot corned beef sandwiches and tea, and something else, a small package with an envelope attached.

He sniffed the air and made a face. "What on earth are you making girl, it smells like pig farts in here."

Graihagh smiled. She was growing a soft spot for the gruff git.

“It’s a Restoration Draught,” she said. “And it tastes as bad as it smells.”

“So it tastes like a pig’s arse then. Can’t you lot add sugar to those potions?”

Graihagh had been asked that question by nearly every single one of her customers. "In most cases, no.”

“Bollocks, I think you just like to see us suffer.”

Graihagh could tell he was teasing her. “Naturally.”

Aberforth made a disapproving noise and tapped the tray with a long finger. “Wash off that off this time before you Banish it back to the kitchen.”

“I will. Cheers, Ab.”

Aberforth grunted out a reply and when he’d gone she set the tray down on a box and slit open the envelope. Just as she’d hoped, Cate's tall sprawling writing practically jumped off the parchment.

_Dear Graihagh,_

_Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you. I'm so glad you're safe, and so proud of you for what you're doing, although I wish it didn't have to be like this._

_Everything is fine here, I haven't seen any sign of Rowle or anyone. I've been busy as always, St. Mungo's started a therapeutic music programme and I've been taking part in that (I don't know if therapeutic is spelled correctly but I'm too tired to look it up right now so whatever.) Don't tell anyone I told you this, but one of my students is Gilderoy Lockart and he's driving me mad, he thinks he's the next big singing sensation and he can't even carry a tune. My other students have been wonderful, though some of them have severe damage and it's so sad to see. Adrian's been taking me to and from London, so don't worry._

_I miss you so much. I hope things are okay for you where you are. Please let me know right away if you need anything._

_Love always,_

_Cate_

_P.S I sent you some fudge and don't worry I followed the recipe this time so there won't be any nasty surprises._

Worried as she was about her, Graihagh couldn't help smiling. She could hear Cate's voice in her head, talking a mile a minute. She folded up the letter and set it on the box she was using as a nightstand, to look at whenever things got too quiet, and savoured a few pieces of fudge.

The letter reminded her, she was going to need more ingredients from Professor Snape. She broke off a sheet of parchment and penned him a quick note, listing all the ingredients she needed and how much. She'd have to borrow an owl from Aberforth again, since her own owl, Mona, was back in Douglas. She supposed it was better that way, Mona never did like being cooped up, but Graihagh missed her. She hoped Owain had taken her in, that was the sort of thing he might do.

She thought Aberforth looked at her a bit strangely when she wouldn't let him see the letter, but he didn't question it, and when his owl had flown off she went back to her potions. She worked until she couldn't see straight and when she was finished she poured herself a drink and tried to forget that she still hadn’t heard from Milo.

She was sorry in a way, that she hadn't taken him seriously, that she'd tried to stop him, but in another way she wished she'd tried harder. She understood why he hated Rowle, she'd spent years wishing him dead. She just didn't understand why he'd give up everything to go after him.

*

Professor Snape's reply came a few days later, so terse she could practically hear his teeth clenching.

_4 o'clock in the morning. Boar's gate._

She had a distinct sense of being on thin ice and knew she'd better show up on time. When she went to bed that night she set the alarm on her watch for half-past three, but she must've slept through it because when she woke up it was five minutes to four.

She threw her robes and her cloak over her pyjamas and ran out the back door, her wand held out in front of her, only remembering to Disillusion herself when she was already out on the street. She could do it well enough that she couldn't really be seen standing still, but she was still visible when she moved.

She took the path to the Hogwarts gate at a brisk walk, thinking about Professor Snape. She couldn’t believe how much he’d changed-and in some sense, how much he _hadn’t_ changed. He'd been downright morose that first year he'd taught her and sad in the years after, but he seemed to have lived three lifetimes since she'd seen him last. His face was thinner and there were lines carved into his forehead and dark circles under his eyes, and the last time they'd met looked as though he were trying his damndest not to cry. He wished she'd just tell her what was wrong, let her help him, but the harder she tried the further he pushed her away.

She understood, in a way. She was like that at times too, and Milo had been that way ever since she'd known him. They'd always danced around their feelings, expressing themselves through sarcasm and teasing, and there was a certain comfort in that, a certain safety in they way they could be close without being vulnerable. If that's how Professor Snape wanted things, she was happy to go along.

"I hope I'm not late, Professor" she said when she'd reached the Hogwart's gate.

Professor Snape started and raised his wand and only then did Graihagh remember that he could barely see her. She tapped her wand to her head and lifted the Disillusionment Charm.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Professor Snape lowered his wand and ran a hand through his hair as though nothing had happened.

"I wasn't startled, I simply wasn't expecting you to show up on time and successfully execute a Disillusionment Charm."

Four in the morning and he was already in top form. Graihagh raised her eyebrows appreciatively. "Touché, Professor."

Professor Snape scowled and narrowed his eyes at her. "You do realise that owls can be intercepted, don't you?"

Graihagh just stared at him in silent protest. The thought had crossed her mind, but how else did he expect her to contact him?

He thrust his hand into his pocket and handed her a large silver coin. "Use this only when you need to contact me. Press your thumb and forefinger to it three seconds and state your location and purpose. Only when absolutely necessary, do you understand?"

"I understand, Professor."

"I mean it. Use it only when absolutely necessary, or I will take it back, do I make myself plain?"

Graihagh refrained from rolling her eyes and kept her expression deadpan. "I didn't quite catch that Professor, could you repeat it a few more times?"

Snape scowled again but she could have sworn she saw something in his face, a twitch of the mouth maybe.

She must've imagined it though, because he thrust a bag of jars and vials at her with alarming force. "Your ingredients," he added unnecessarily.

Graihagh slipped the bag into her pocket. "Thank you."

Professor Snape inclined his head to her and turned to leave, and Graihagh was surprised to find she didn't want him to. All that time spent making potions left her with a need to talk about it with someone.

"Could I ask you something?"

Professor Snape's back stiffened and he turned to face her, looking wary. Graihagh wondered if he was expecting her to ask him how he was, but she had a different question in mind, and who better to ask than her old mentor?

"Do you use the official method for preparing Wolfsbane? It seems like half the time I make it it comes out too potent. I feel like there must be a better way."

Snape's face relaxed. "You steam the aconite first to reduce the toxic alkaloids?"

"Yeah. It helps, but it's not really enough."

"Have you tried adding an infusion of licorice and ginseng? It's more effective than steaming alone."

"Does that work for you?"

"Usually."

"Of course,” she said. “Inter-herbal alchemy. Brilliant." She reached into her robes and pulled out a parchment and quill, kneeling down to write on her knee. "I'm useless at remembering things unless I write them down," she explained.

She stuffed the parchment into her pocket and stood up. The trees were bathed in silver-blue moonlight and she longed for a walk in the grounds, but she was afraid to go alone. She wasn't about to tell him that, though.

"Nice morning," she said. Snape made a murmur of agreement.

"The moon's nearly full," she went on. "Perfect time for harvesting ingredients. I think I might go for a walk in the grounds." She gave him a rather critical once-over. "I suppose you couldn't be bothered though."

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"I just mean that you don't exactly strike me as an outdoorsy sort of person."

This had exactly the effect she'd hoped it would. Professor Snape stood up straighter and threw an indignant cloak over his shoulder. "As it so happens I was headed for a walk in the grounds myself."

"Oh," said Graihagh, as though she didn't really care. "Well, I suppose we could go together."

Snape gave her a rather sharp look and she wondered if he smelled some sort of trick. "I suppose."

Graihagh pulled open the boar's gate and walked into the grounds, rubbing her face with one hand to keep from smiling. Professor Snape walked beside her, far enough away that she couldn't easily talk to him, which she supposed was deliberate.

The eastern sky was striped with pink and the moon was bright enough that she could identify some of the plants and animals she saw. She slipped on her dragonhide gloves and stooped to pick some aconite and a bundle of yarrow, binding the stems with a piece of twine and slipping them into an empty jar. Snape was some distance away, bending down to examine a plant, completely at ease, and she knew she was seeing him as he really was, the part of himself he kept hidden when he was standing behind a teacher’s desk or walking down a busy street.

Something about the smell of the damp air reminded her of the Malfoy's garden, and when the fear surged through her she held the jar to her face and breathed it in, counting. She looked over at Professor Snape and reminded herself that nothing could happen as long as he was there.

He was standing with his hand held in front of his face, his forefinger extended, and Graihagh wondered if he'd found some sort of creature. She tucked the jar into her robes and walked over to him. A red-winged butterfly with beautiful peacock markings had landed on his finger.

" _Aglais io_ ," he said, never taking his eyes off it.

"The peacock butterfly," Graihagh murmured. "They're used in metamorphosing potions, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Are you going to collect it?"

"I suppose I could," said Snape, but he made no move to trap it, and Graihagh didn't blame him. She moved in closer and they watched the rhythmic motion of its wings, the twitch of its antennae. The sun had risen and a cool breeze had blown up and her shaking stopped.

"They're beautiful aren't they?" Graihagh whispered. "I can never bring myself to collect these. I always have to buy them already preserved."

"So do I."

He stiffened and looked sideways at her as though he'd let something slip, but she didn't think there was anything wrong with what he'd said. She pretended not to notice, though she did wonder how he could've joined the Death Eaters when he couldn't even bring himself to capture an insect. But that had been a long time ago and anyway he'd regretted it, he'd told her so himself. He'd lost someone during the first war, she was sure of it. He'd been crying like the world was ending.

The butterfly shot into the air and Graihagh realised they'd been so absorbed in watching it they'd wandered right into each other's personal space, so close their arms were touching. Snape stepped away from her, hands shoved into his pockets and eyes scanning the grounds, nervous and uncomfortable.

"I think I've collected enough ingredients," he said. "Remember to use the coin next time you need to contact me. And only-"

"Only if necessary, I know, Professor."

Professor Snape opened his mouth, to make some sort of retort maybe, then closed it again, scowling. He turned and walked away along the path that led to the Hogwart's gate, and though the grounds didn't scare her so much now that the sun was up, she followed along behind.

She remembered another morning her fifth year, when they'd both been out looking for plants. She'd dropped all her potion's ingredients and with her dad laid off she'd been so sure she wouldn't be able to buy more, but he'd understood and he'd helped her. And yet here he was being downright miserable to her. He was full of contradictions.

But at least she’d had someone to talk to. That was something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The safe preparation of aconite using steaming and the addition of ginseng, ginger, and licorice comes from traditional Chinese medicine and really works, and certain types of snake venom actually have pain-killing compounds as powerful as morphine, though unfortunately we're probably a ways off from being able to use them. Still, I thought that was pretty amazing.
> 
> This will probably be my last update before Christmas so happy holidays to all of you and I hope you're able to enjoy the last few weeks of this crazy year <3<3<3


	8. Chapter 8

Snape was sitting at the Malfoy’s dining room table, staring down at the all the silverware beside his plate and wondering what the bloody _point_ of all those forks was.

Ever since they’d lost their house-elf the Malfoys had been reduced to hiring someone to do the housekeeping and the cooking. They’d had the same servant for the past year, a young woman from one of those ancient families that had gone broke several generations prior and was diligently trying to climb back up the ladder, Miss Warrington her name was, one of his Slytherins. He’d caught her sneaking into the dragon enclosure at the Triwizard Tournament her seventh year and he was sure she’d be in Romania by now, studying the beasts.

There was an outbreak of nudging and amused murmurs as Miss Warrington walked into the room, five silver trays hovering in the air in front of her. She lowered them onto the table with a flick of the wand.

The Dark Lord fixed his eyes on her. "More wine, Miss Warrington."

If she felt any discomfort at being watched so closely by the Dark Lord she didn't show it. "Yes my Lord," she said, like one of those Muggle automatons, without any expression at all.

She handed the Dark Lord his glass and he looked into her eyes for the smallest sign of fear, the merest flicker of disapproval or disgust at all those times she'd been forced to put poison into someone's drink and watch them convulse. Snape studied his face but he couldn't tell if he saw anything.

The Dark Lord raised his glass and they all followed suit. "To Minister Thicknesse, and the glorious future we shall build together."

Thicknesse was sitting across from Snape, wearing the blank, sloppy grin of a man how had no idea where the hell he was but was enjoying himself anway. His weakness was as disgusting as his face. Snape had students who could resist the Imperius Curse better than this dung sack.

Like Potter. Snape knew all about his narrow escape, knew he wouldn't be able resist the opportunity to show off and say the Dark Lord's name. He supposed it was only a matter of time before he did it again and Snape would have to swoop in and save his arrogant arse.

"...Severus?"

Snape snapped back to attention. Everyone was looking at him.

"Have you heard the good news?" the Dark Lord went on. "The governors have made their decision. It was unanimous."

A ripple of laughter broke out around the table, because of course it was. Snape leaned back in his chair and smirked at all the idiots sitting around the table as the Dark Lord held up his glass. "To the new Headmaster of Hogwarts School."

Snape took a drink and looked over his glass at Draco. His expression was unsure, as though he didn't know whether to be pleased or not. Lucius and Narcissa seemed calm enough. They'd wanted this for years.

"I am honoured, my Lord," said Snape in a bored voice, as though becoming Headmaster of a prestigious wizarding school were an everyday occurance, because he knew how much it would annoy Bellatrix.

Just as he'd hoped Bellatrix's mouth thinned like she'd tasted something bitter. The Carrows spent the entire meal kissing his arse, no doubt hoping for favours once they got to Hogwarts, and Snape supposed they'd do as his deputies, they were loyal enough. He'd been worried the Dark Lord would appoint Yaxley or Bellatrix or someone else who'd go behind his back and do things their own way.

When the pudding had been served-chocolate dragons coated in edible gold that had been transfigured to fly into the room-Snape stood up and took his leave, hoping against hope they'd let him.

He got as far as the doorway before the Dark Lord caught up with him.

"Severus," he said, head cocked slightly to one side as he studied his face. "Headmaster." He smiled in a way that told Snape he was about to fuck with his mind. "I have a reward for you. First floor, east wing, second bedroom to your right. I think you'll find her _worthy_."

His lips curled and he had that triumphant glint in his eyes like he'd caught him doing something he shouldn't. Snape knew he remembered every second of him on his knees, begging him to spare a Mudblood. He wondered if the woman was a reward or a punishment.

He emptied his mind and forced his lips into a smile. "Thank you very much indeed, my Lord."

He could leave. He could go back to Spinner's End and just lie and say he'd done it. But he knew the Dark Lord was watching him. He drowned his feelings but they surfaced in his rapid breath and tight chest and pounding head.

_Don't think._

Snape stopped at the top of the stairs and listened for the rustle of fabric, the sound of breathing. He couldn't hear anything, but that didn't mean the Dark Lord wasn't there. He had ways of making himself inaudible, it was like he could become part of the air.

He probably didn't need to worry so much once he was inside at least, the Dark Lord wouldn't go so far as to come into the room with him. He turned the doorknob and took a deep breath, then stepped inside, closing the door behind him and muttering an Imperturbable Charm, just in case.

A young woman with long dark hair was sitting at the edge of a double bed, smoking. She held the fag way his mother used to, working it anxiously between her fingers. Snape recognized her. She'd been in his N.E.W.T potions class a few years ago, and hadn't done too badly.

The woman took a long drag and looked him up and down, nose wrinkled in disgust. Snape just wanted to get the hell out of there, away from everyone, away from himself, and yet there she was, and he could do anything he wanted to her, and wasn't that what he was _supposed_ to want, wasn't that what it meant to be powerful, to be someone? He couldn't make her want him, but he could make her have him, and in the end it amounted to the same thing.

But he didn't want to. Or was it just that he couldn't bring himself to do it? Or was it both? Was he just as sick and twisted as the rest of them? He'd be lying to himself if he said he wasn't angry with her. There were echoes of his old tormentors in the way she looked at him, like his presence was offensive.

She raised her fag to her mouth and pursed her lips together.

"You'll get lung cancer," said Snape. Of all the stupid things to say. The woman just stared at him and blew another cloud of smoke in his face.

She flicked the fag to the wood floor and stamped it out with her shoe. "Well?" she said, her voice tired, resigned. _Let's just get this over with._

He wondered what she was even doing there. Likely she from some destitute Pureblood family trying to claw its way back up, like Miss Warrington.

There wasn't much he could do, the Dark Lord was bound to look into her mind after. One wrong move and his house of cards would collapse and everything he'd gone through would be for nothing.

He undid the top buttons on his robes and stepped towards her, forceful, aggressive, and just as he hoped she shrank back, fingers curled around the duvet.

She'd remember this and her fear was all the Dark Lord would need to see to be satisfied.

Snape raised his wand. " _Confundo_." The woman's eyes went slack and Snape knelt down in front of her and squinted in concentration.

"You think we've been together," he murmured. "You're afraid of me. You want to leave this place and go abroad. You don't know I told you this _."_

He turned his arm a bit so his watch face was showing and wondered how long he should wait. How long did these things usually take-twenty minutes, sixty? He settled for fifteen and stood awkwardly by the door, mussing up his hair and letting loose a jet of hot air from his wand to make his face flushed. His kept thinking about the woman on the bed and the things he could do to her and it excited him and he hated it. He’d only ever been with two people, two brief, out-of-body encounters he barely remembered. But the longing never really went away, and sometimes when he was alone he’d imagine horrible things, being pushed around and tied up. He wished he could tear off his body like clothing, throw it away and become a phantom.

He forced himself to stop thinking, and when the time had passed he flicked his wand towards the woman on the bed.

" _Finite."_

She stood up and hurried out the door without another look at him. She'd be alright.

He supposed the Dark Lord would be waiting and he tried to look confident and relaxed as he walked down the stairs, the way the thought the others might look. The Dark Lord was gone but Yaxley was standing at the bottom smirking, he was such a prick.

"She left in a hurry," he said.

Snape's lip curled. "I told her you were looking for her."

Yaxley made a face and opened his mouth to say something but Snape pushed past him towards the door. He'd just reached it when someone screamed. He grabbed his wand and strode towards the sound, the drawing room, he thought.

Three figures were standing by the wall in front of a huge tapestry of satyrs and nymphs embroidered in of gold and silver threads, one of Narcissa's Black family heirlooms. Bellatrix had her wand pointed to Miss Warrington's chest and the Dark Lord was standing in front of her and smiling slightly, his posture tense, controlled.

"Ah, Severus," he said. "You're just in time. It seems we have a traitor in our midst."

Snape glanced at Miss Warrington, who was staring at Bellatrix's wand as though hypnotized.

He kept his expression cool, as though she were merely a curiosity. Which, in a way, she was. He hadn't realized there were others. "Really?"

"Indeed. It seems she has been passing information to the Order."

Now Snape was intrigued. He wished he'd known, he could have done it for her. She was too reckless for her own good.

"Now," said the Dark Lord, his face close to her ear. "I'm not going to ask you again. Where is the message?"

Miss Warrington swallowed hard. Her face was shining with sweat. "I don't-I don't have it."

The Dark Lord nodded to Bellatrix.

" _Crucio!_ "

Miss Warrington fell to the floor in a heap, writhing and screaming.

"Wait," said Snape. Bellatrix lowered her wand and Snape knelt down beside Miss Warrington.

"Give us the message and we'll let you leave here alive."

He didn't know how he did it, how he just flat-out lied to her. They'd get the message either way, but perhaps he could buy her some time, work out a plan. Take her to a back room to finish her off and get her out through a window.

Miss Warrington looked back at him and her face was resolute despite her wide, terrified eyes. "I don't have it."

She wasn't going to crack. The Dark Lord nodded to Bellatrix, but Snape was quicker.

"Shouldn't we interrogate her?"

"There is no need," said the Dark Lord. "She is merely an underling."

He'd made up his mind. There was nothing more he could do.

Snape had his wand hidden halfway up his sleeve. He pointed it at Miss Warrington and spoke the incantation with his mind.

_Imperio_

The woman's face went slack. Snape glanced at Bellatrix but she didn't seem to have noticed.

_You will feel no pain. You are in a forest with dragons where everything is peaceful and nothing can harm you._

Bellatrix raised her wand. " _Crucio_!"

Her spell had no effect on Miss Warrington. She was completely at peace.

"She's lost her mind," crowed Bellatrix. Snape wondered if she'd let her go. Surely madness was punishment enough?

She considered her a long time and all Snape could do was watch. He couldn't order her not to die.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

Miss Warrington slumped to the floor, her eyes closed, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. She hadn't felt a thing.

He scarcely remembered what happened next. The Dark Lord handed him a slip of paper and a vial and he left the manor and spun into the air.

*

Snape was pacing the Headmaster’s office and the old man was staring down at him all pityingly like a father hugging a child after a thrashing, _it's for your own good_ , the hell it was.

“Did something happen Severus?”

"I was at a Death Eater meeting, what do you think?" he snapped.

"A foolish question indeed. Forgive me, my dear Severus."

Why the hell was he being so polite, was he mocking him? Snape stifled the _fuck you_ on the edge of his lips and stopped pacing.

"The Malfoy's servant was an informant for the Order," he said. "They took this from her after they finished her off." He held up the vial and the sheet of parchment. "It appears to be some sort of potion, but I can't read the message. It's written in code."

"Indeed," muttered Dumbledore. "And you think you can break it?"

"Eventually," said Snape. This sort of thing was a specialty of his, he'd deciphered a bit of code in the last war.

"Good, good. Phineas has just informed me that Harry, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are still safe in Grimmauld Place."

Phineas made an impatient noise. "Most unfortunately. They've become _insufferable_ with their mood swings and their teenage arrogance, now they planning to break into the _Ministry_ of all places-"

Snape whipped around. "What?"

Phineas was examining one of his fingernails but Snape had the feeling he was rather enjoying himself. "They think they're going to break into the Ministry of Magic, don't ask me why, I have no idea. Bloody Gryffindors."

"Can't you talk them out of it?"

Phineas looked up from his fingernail and raised an eyebrow. "As though they'd listen to anything I said."

"Idiots," spat Snape.

Phineas made an appreciative noise. "Finally someone agrees with me."

"Don't worry about Harry, Severus," said Dumbledore. "He's faced worse dangers."

Snape opened his mouth to object but Dumbledore held up a hand. "As I've said, don't worry about Harry. There is a great deal of work to be done. Have you designed a new curriculum? Prepared the timetables? Come up with a budget?"

Snape just stared at him with his mouth open. He had no idea just how much work needed to be done. "I-no."

"Well, then sit down, my dear boy, and let's get started."

*

Snape spent a week holed up in the Headmaster's office poring over tedious administrative tasks and drawing up timetables, but it felt more like a year.

Allowing Muggle-borns to attend was out of the question, and as much as he disliked children he felt some regret at the thought of all those excited eleven-year-olds about to be turned away. The Dark Lord had insisted that Muggle Studies become compulsory, and the Dark Arts taught, by that idiot Amycus at least, and not Bellatrix, whose hatred of children didn't extend to teaching them the finer points of the Cruciatus Curse.

The puppet government valued education rather more than the previous one had, and the budget had increased. The staff salaries would remain unchanged, including that of a certain elf, and the day before the new term he faced his first and most bizarre task as Headmaster.

Lily used to sneak into the school kitchens but Snape only ever started going there after a few years of teaching. Sometimes he'd meet Minerva and they'd drink hot chocolate and gossip about their students and see who could deliver the most stinging insults towards the other's house. Minerva usually won.

He forced himself not to think about her as the entrance opened and he stepped inside. The elves stepped back, ears drooping like frightened dogs. Timid little beasts.

"I am looking for Dobby."

Every head turned towards the elf, a green-eyed, bat-eared creature dressed in a bizarre array of mismatched clothing. He stepped forward, ears slicked back and eyes burning with anger, and Snape supposed he must have heard everything. The elves didn't miss much.

Or maybe he just remembered him from the first war.

The elf thrust a crooked finger at Snape's chest. "You is a horrible man. You is not ought to be taking Dumbledore's place!"

Indignant murmurs spread though the room. One of the elves raised a meat cleaver in the air.

"There is something I need to discuss-"

"You is leaving now!"

"I need to-"

"Out! Out!"

The elf grabbed Snape by the thumb and twisted it with everything he had.

Snape snatched his hand away. "I'm here to discuss your pay!" he snapped.

The elf's eyes widened. "My...pay?"

"You were receiving one galleon a week, I believe?" The elf nodded. "You will continue to receive it, under one condition. You are not to tell anyone, do you understand?"

The elf looked utterly bewildered, but he didn't protest. "Dobby is not saying a word, sir."

"Good." Snape drew himself up to his full height and stared round at the rest of them. "None of you is to say a word about this, and that's an order."

The elves nodded, as confused as Dobby, and Snape knew his secret was safe. Their magic was strong enough to block any attempt at Legilimency.

He had no idea what made him do it. Maybe he was going senile. Maybe the elves were too useful to ignore. Maybe he was just tired of feeling like a monster.

He swept out of the room and paced around the Headmaster's office, wishing he had a fag or a potion or something to calm his nerves. He'd already had to face reporters from the Daily Prophet aiming their stupid camera at his face and asking for quotes and now some of the staff were due to arrive and he'd be forced to dine with them. Holing up in his office would just make him look weak, and he had to meet with the heads of house after anyway.

He couldn't bring himself to wait for them in the Entrance Hall the way Dumbledore had. He paced the little room off the staff table until quarter to six and walked into the empty Hall. Dumbledore's chair was far too large for him, too strange. He shifted around but he couldn't get comfortable.

Alecto and Amycus arrived a few minutes later, talking and laughing. They stopped in front of the table and Amycus bowed so low his hat fell off. Alecto followed suit.

Snape clenched his teeth and held up a hand in greeting. "Here and here," he said, pointing to their seats, a ways down the table because he couldn't bring himself to let them sit in Minerva's seat, or Sprout's or Flitwick's.

He cracked his knuckles and ran a hand through his hair. Time had all but stopped. He imagined it was just an ordinary year, and Minerva would sit down on one side of him and Sprout on the other and they would talk about their holidays and he’d tell them he’d had a fine time and Minerva would raise her eyebrows and peer over her glasses at him because she knew he was lying and he’d go to her office after and have a drink and he’d tell her how his holiday really went, or some of it anyway...

The door creaked open and Minerva's footsteps thundered through the Great Hall.

" _How dare you_ ? How _dare_ you sat where he sat, you fucking traitor?"

She was white-faced and shaking, lips thin and nostrils flaring. A lioness.

"If you and those-those foul sycophants-" she glared at the Carrows, who jeered back at her-"harm a single student, I swear on Dumbledore's grave I will kill you myself, do you understand?"

Snape couldn't answer her. His body was thrumming with things he couldn't name.

" _Do you hear me?_ Answer me, you coward-"

The sting of it sent a surge of anger through him and he welcomed it, used it. He stood up and slammed his hand down on the table.

"Enough!"

The Carrows went silent and Alecto raised her eyebrows, clearly enjoying the display, and Snape regretted that he'd given her the satisfaction. He adjusted his robes and lowered his voice, his expression cool. "I expect more self-control from my staff, Minerva. Threaten me again and you will regret it."

"Let’s get one thing straight, _Severus._ I am here to protect my students. You are not my Headmaster and I am not a member of your staff, do you understand me?”

Snape couldn't bring himself to say anything.

Professors Flitwick and Sprout hurried into the room looking terrified, grabbing onto her arms to restrain her, and Minerva clenched her jaw shut and walked over to the staff table without another look at him. Professor Sprout shot him a look of pure loathing that twisted her warm, open face into something he didn't recognize.

McGonagall should have sat at his right-hand side, as his most senior staff member and Head of Gryffindor House, but she refused. She took a seat a few places down. There may as well have been a continent between them and how was he going to get through this meal?

More staff members filed in, some glaring at him, some refusing to look at him at all. Slughorn spared him a small shocked glance before taking his seat towards the end of the staff table, and Sinistra pursed her lips together, scowling. Hagrid hadn’t shown up at all.

Snape didn’t know how he got through the meal. His body cut up some food and ate and drank but he didn’t know where he was.

He left the table while the rest of them were still eating and made his way through the Entrance Hall to the staff room, where he arranged a few chairs around a small wooden table. He wondered if they’d boycott the meeting in protest but walked in some time later, whispering and muttering amongst themselves.

“Let’s get this over with,” said Minerva as she sat down. “What foul changes have you and your underlings brought upon Dumbledore’s school?”

She was wielding his name like a dagger. Snape clenched and unclenched his fists and shuffled through the stacks of parchment on the table in front of him. He pulled an enchanted quill out his robes to record the minutes and faced the heads of house, keeping his eyes fixed slightly above their heads because he couldn't bring himself to look them in the eye.

“This meeting will now come to order,” he said, his voice as cool and commanding as he could make it. "I have a copy of the minutes from the previous meeting." He handed them around. "Do I hear a motion to adopt?"

Minerva shot him down with a sharp 'tchah' and crumpled up the parchment. "We know who's really in charge here, Severus, so dispense with these formalities and stop insulting our intelligence."

Snape scowled but he didn't argue with her, he'd never seen the point of those formal procedures anyway. He drew himself up to his full height and tried to look imposing.

“As you are no doubt aware, there will be some changes to the curriculum and the teaching staff this year-”

Minerva arched an eyebrow. "You don't say?"

Professor Sprout clutched her arm. "Minerva," she whispered, eyes wide with fear, but Minerva looked as resolute as ever.

Snape decided to ignore them. “I’ve outlined the changes here-” he flicked his wand and sent four pieces of parchment flying to the heads of house-”and I have the timetables drawn up.” He gestured to four thick stacks of parchment on the table.

Minerva took one look at her parchment and stood up. “You have those foul Carrows teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle studies? I will not permit it!”

Snape’s anger was instinctive and he did nothing to stifle it. He grabbed hold of it, controlled it, channeled it into his narrowed eyes and fierce, soft voice. “You do not have the authority to permit anything. Now _sit down_.”

“I will not! This-” Minerva ripped the parchment in half. “Is-” she ripped it again. “A farce!”

She stared him down, breathing hard, daring him to say anything.

His anger, his hurt, his humiliation was ballooning up inside his chest and threatening to overwhelm him. He clenched his teeth as though he could tamp it down. “Carry on like this and I will have you thrown out of the school.”

The threat was an empty one. The school needed her. He wondered if she knew it, because she simply glared at him and swept out of the room, Sprout and Flitwick hurrying along behind her. Slughorn stood up slowly and ambled along after them, playing his hat between his fingers. When he'd reached the door he stopped and turned around, the corners of his mouth drooping under his mustache, like a wax figure left too long in the sun.

"I just don't understand, Severus. Dumbledore...why?"

Snape had no idea how to answer him, but Slughorn didn't seem to expect him to. With a last stricken look he turned and walked away, leaving Snape alone in the empty staff room.

He swept out the door and took the corridors at a fast walk, almost a run, not stopping until he'd reached the headmaster's office.

He strode up to the old man's portrait and scratched it under his fingernails but the canvas wouldn't tear.

Dumbledore had that pitying look on his face again, the incorrigible old fuck. “I’m sorry, Severus-”

"SHUT UP!" screamed Snape. "You scheming bastard-you knew-you had this all planned-"

He grabbed the frame with both hands and pulled it from the wall to break it over his fucking knee, but it wouldn't budge, because of course this damned castle wouldn't let him have even that small satisfaction . He kicked over his chair and threw a silver scale is against the wall and leaned over the desk to catch his breath.

Dumbledore's portrait said nothing and Snape shot it a furtive glance, wondering if the old man was jeering at him, but his expression was serious.

The portrait of Armando Dippet let in a scandalised breath. "Never, in all my time have I seen such a disgraceful display, you call this man Headmaster-"

Snape wheeled around. "SHUT UP!"

"That will do, Armando," said Dumbledore. He looked back at Snape. "I understand how difficult this must be for you Severus-"

“The hell you do!”

He thought Dumbledore would hold up a hand to stop him, make some objection, insist that he did, in fact understand, but he was quiet a long time. "Perhaps you are right."

His admission shocked Snape into-he wasn't sure what, exactly. But his heart stopped pounding and his head wasn't all white-hot flashes of anger and he was drained enough to slump down on the desk chair with his head in his hands, wishing time would just stop. He didn't want to stay awake and he was afraid to go to sleep.

His eyelids were drooping and he rested his arms on the desk and laid his head down, too tired to control his thoughts. He was walking the grounds with Miss Corlett on a peaceful summer morning, watching the butterfly, and her voice was the last thing he heard before he went to sleep.

*

Snape woke up the next morning to the sun in his eyes and a sore back. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, his head resting on his arms, which had become stiff and numb.

The light was tinted orange and he supposed it must be early, about six-thirty or seven in the morning. He draped his traveling cloak over his shoulders and hurried down to the Entrance Hall, praying he wouldn't run into any of the staff.

He didn't understand this sudden urge to go outside. Miss Corlett had taken to walking the grounds in the morning but they were large enough that the chances of running into her were slim, and she was sure to have heard about him by now anyway. Which was just as well, she was rather annoying.

He glanced around for any sign of Hagrid, but he didn't see him. There was a bit of smoke coming out his chimney so he was probably fixing himself breakfast.

He told himself it was just an ordinary school year, he was just taking a break from his lesson plans and waiting for the train to arrive. He'd go to the feast and eat as much food as he could hold and listen to Dumbledore's bizarre speeches.

He walked along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, past the Whomping Willow, and he was about to turn back towards the castle when he saw Miss Corlett, stooping down to examine a plant or insect. She started at the sound of his footsteps but when she looked up and saw who it was her face relaxed. So she didn't know. Or was she hiding something?

She stood up and the breeze blew her hair across her face, the strands jagged and uneven. He supposed she had to cut it herself, to keep it short. Her skin was flushed from the cold but there were dark circles under her eyes and she didn't seem entirely well, not that he cared.

"Professor Snape-I mean, Headmaster-that's wonderful by the way, congratulations."

She must've heard about it from Lupin or read about it in the _Prophet_ , but why on earth was she congratulating him? He decided not to comment on it.

He glanced down at the bundle in her hand. "Sage?"

"Er-yeah," she said, sounding a bit flustered. "I like to use it fresh and I might not get too many more chances to pick it before the cold sets in."

She tied the bundle of leaves with a piece of twine and tucked it into her robes. "I tried that licorice and ginseng infusion Professor, it worked perfectly. I haven't had a bad batch since."

Snape murmured a distracted reply. He wondered what sorts of things Lupin had been telling her about him, and yet it must'nt have been too terrible, because here she was, having an ordinary conversation with him.

"Do you remember the first time I tried to make it?" said Miss Corlett. "I added too much silver and the potion caught on fire."

"Vividly. I never did get the scorch marks off the desk."

Miss Corlett snorted. He'd forgotten that ridiculous laugh of hers. "And then the end of my braid got singed and I went mental."

She went quiet and played with her hands in a way that told him she was about to say something sincere.

"You really taught me a lot, you know. My employer-Owain Quirk, he's potioneer, have you heard of him?"

He nodded; Quirk was well-respected in potioneering circles, but Snape mainly remembered him for an article he wrote in _The Practical Potioneer,_ about first-aid for potioneers who accidentally poisoned themselves while eating their own ingredients.

"Well, he said that he'd never had an apprentice who knew so much. And it's all thanks to you. I suppose it's no surprise they appointed you headmaster."

Snape was far too clever to be taken in by her flattery. Something was going on here-was she spying on him for the Order? She must've been.

He drew his wand and Miss Corlett jumped back, startled. Ah. So she _was_ afraid of him.

"Let's not have any more pretense, Miss Corlett. Whatever it is you're trying to do here, it's not going to work." He pointed his wand to a nearby stand of trees. " _Homenium Revelio_." Nothing. They were alone, it seemed.

Miss Corlett glanced towards the trees and put a hand in her pocket, getting ready to draw her wand, likely. "What are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

Miss Corlett looked completely bewildered, but she wasn't a bad liar, he remembered that about her. "I don't actually."

"Don't lie to me. And don't ask me for more ingredients, I don't have the time to get them for you."

"But I don't have enough money-"

"Then make some potions to sell. You're a potioneer aren't you?"

Miss Corlett looked so stricken he almost wished he hadn't said anything, but he couldn't take the risk. She gave him the smallest nod and threw up her hood, and Snape supposed he wouldn't see her again.

He steadied himself a second, stifled the thought of those ungrateful bastards and their smug self-righteous rage. He brushed his fingers across the letter in his pocket and remembered Lily's face. He was doing this for her, he couldn't fail.

He drew his wand and pointed it to her head before she had a chance to fight back.

" _Confundo_."

Her face went slack and he stepped closer to her and stared into her eyes, her warm breath blowing on his face.

"An old Slytherin friend told you the Dark Lord's name has been Tabooed and can be used to identify the location of anyone who uses it. I did not tell you this. You must tell the first Order member you see. _Finite_."

Miss Corlett's eyes turned sharp, wary. "What just happened? Why did you point your wand at me?"

"Nothing happened."

"Look, I know something's going on. I wish you would just tell me."

As if she didn't know. "Enough of this, Miss Corlett. You know exactly what's going on, and I know perfectly well what you're up to. You've been sent here by the Order, you're attempting to spy on me, and it's not going to work."

He fully expected her to break down, confess everything, or strenously deny the whole thing. But instead she was all confused indignation.

"What? Why on earth would I spy on you?"

His frustration had reached its breaking point. He threw up his hands, gesticulating the thoughts he couldn't put words to, a frustrated noise escaping his throat. And then a thought occured to him; perhaps the Order _hadn't_ told her, perhaps they'd put her in danger for their own ends, it seemed like the sort of thing they might do. He wondered how much she knew.

"Did you know the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry?"

Miss Corlett's face was obscured by her hood, but he heard her sharp breath. "Oh my God," she muttered. "So that's why the _Prophet_ has been so ridiculous lately." She was quiet a moment, as though letting it all sink in. "But Hogwarts is safe, isn't it?"

Snape said nothing, but his silence was as good as an admission.

Miss Corlett stared at him from under her hood. "What...no. No. You couldn't have."

"Stay away from here, do you understand me?"

"I don't understand-you said you regretted it-"

"I lied. Now _go_.'

“You couldn't have-”

“I told you to leave!”

He couldn't see her face, but her rigid posture was all shock and confusion. She stared at him a moment and then turned towards the gates, trudging up the path with her arms crossed over her chest.

Snape went back to his office and tore at his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [hbprincealice](https://hbprincealice.tumblr.com/) for the insightful meta on Snape's sexuality.
> 
> Hope you are all safe and well <3


	9. Chapter 9

Snape spent the afternoon before the Welcoming Feast holed up in the headmaster’s office, going over his speech with Dumbledore and flipping through the books on his shelves. He'd pick one up, stare at it a few minutes, realise he hadn't read anything, then pick up another one, hoping he'd hit on something interesting enough to distract him. He didn't. The seconds ticked on and every passing hour left him more on edge until he was nothing but stiff muscles and nerves. 

At half-past five he left his office to see the Carrows, venting some his nervous energy through his long strides, ducking through hidden passageways and little-used corridors to avoid running into any of the staff. 

Neither of the Carrows had any experience teaching and their lesson plans were as clueless and short-sighted as he thought they'd be. This worked to his advantage, in a way. He could sway them under the guise of giving them advice, making sure that especially dangerous curses like Avada Kedavra and Fiendfyre were restricted to theory and that the assigned text didn't mention Horcruxes.

With that tedious task finished, he went to Filch’s office and rapped on the door. He was counting on him to get to the students before the Carrows did. He was a harsh man, he enjoyed punishment, but he wasn't a killer. The same could not be said of his deputies. 

"Headmaster," said Filch, lips thin and tight. 

"Good evening Filch."

Snape glanced into the office as Filch stood up, at the jars of animals and the little figurines he'd whittled out of wood, hoping perhaps Filch might invite him in and they'd talk fishing and play bridge and bitch about the students the way they used to do, but he even if it weren't for his increased status, he knew Filch had no intention of this. He'd never been overly fond of Dumbledore-the old man was too soft, he used to say. But he'd been just as shocked by his death as the others were. 

"As you know, things have changed this year. I'm counting upon you and Mrs. Norris to keep the students in line."

He'd been hoping Filch would be chuffed by this, but his lip curled and his face twitched and he was looking at Snape as though he were something under his shoe. Filch. Of all people. 

"I take it I have your permission to give them a good whipping then?" he said. 

Of course the reinstatement of corporal punishment would be Filch's silver lining. Somehow it was less amusing now. 

"Well, I suppose I could, but then there'd be no one to help you clean the castle and I can't be bothered giving you a pay rise."

Filch scowled. "As you wish, Headmaster."

Snape turned and walked away, lifting up his wrist to check the time. Half past six. The staff would be gathering in the little room off the Great Hall for introductions and small talk, the way they always did. 

Snape might've been eleven years old again, dressed in shabby second-hand robes and about to walk into a classroom full of staring children. He absolutely could not bring himself to open that door.

But he had to. He couldn't fail, not something this important. He closed his eyes and imagined their jeering faces, summoned up all his frustration, his anger. So they hated him. He could hate them right back. 

He opened his eyes and swept into the room the way he stepped into a crowd of Death Eaters, boots thudding on the stone floor, cloak swishing, candles flickering as he walked past. Everyone except the Carrows was huddled in a far corner, whispering and throwing him venomous looks. Plotting how best to undermine him, he supposed, or even dismantle his regime. Fools. He was the only thing standing between them and the Dark Lord, and they had no idea.

He remembered when he first started teaching, when he thought the rest of the staff had been whispering and muttering about him. Everything had come full circle, only then there'd been some hope that things would change. 

Snape didn't even try to approach them, just stood awkwardly with the Carrows, who mercifully babbled on and on so he could let his mind wander. 

When seven o'clock came Snape made the announcement and the staff filed past him into the Great Hall. Professor Sprout was the last in line. She stopped him just outside the door.

"What happened to Professor Burbage?" she whispered.

"She resigned," said Snape. He couldn't stand the sound of his voice. Or hers. 

"Resigned my foot. What really happened?"

"I already told you. Now take your seat." 

He'd spent so many evenings in her greenhouses, collecting specimens and talking about new plant breeds, and here she was, staring at him as though she'd never known him, her mouth trembling and her eyes fierce, shocked, bright. She swept past him into the Great Hall. 

And with her face still in his mind, Snape took his seat in the Headmaster's chair, still too large and strange for him to sit in comfortably. 

The silence at the staff table was so unnerving it was almost a relief when the students started to pour in, filling the hall with their voices, but they were different this year. Hushed, scared, hesitant. 

Draco strode up to the Slytherin table, his expression serious, a Head Boy badge pinned to his chest, Nott and Zabini by his side. Miss Parkinson and her friends weren't far behind, smiling and laughing as they took their seats. Snape felt someone watching him and glanced at the Gryffindor table, where Longbottom and Miss Weasley were glaring at him so ferociously he wondered if they were attempting burn a hole through his chest with their eyes. He decided to ignore them.

After ten minutes or so the doors banged open and Minerva strode in, the first-years trailing along behind her, Hagrid at her side. Snape had never discussed this with them, just let them carry on as they always had, thinking they might gain the first-years' trust. The Carrows hadn't questioned it, but he'd been lucky this time. They were clever enough, in their own coarse way. 

The Sorting hat opened its brim and Snape tensed, thinking the song might be a two-minute screed against his treachery, complete with references to his appearance, but it was much the same as it'd been the year before, a warning and a call for unity. The hat didn't mention him at all, and Snape supposed it knew his true loyalties, having spent so much time in the headmaster's office. He hoped so, anyway. 

Minerva called out a name and one-by-one the first-years shuffled up to the stool, some of them trembling. He recognized a few names-there was a Rosier, a Runcorn, an Avery. He wondered if they were the children of those six-and-seventh years he'd taught when he first started.

The last student was sorted and Snape squeezed his sweaty hands together under the table, because he knew what was coming. He'd spent three hours trying to come up with something clever, writing and rewriting lines and tossing sheets of parchment at the wall. He stood up.

"The feast will now begin."

Obviously, he'd failed.

He scanned the house tables for any stirrings of rebellion, but most of the students were busy filling their plates with food. This was too easy. Clearly something was up. His eyes rested on Longbottom, Weasley and Finnigan, who were whispering together at the Gryffindor table. Longbottom stared right back at him, a bold, defiant gesture that could only mean trouble. 

Minerva was sitting stiffly at his right, having apparently decided that the indignity of a Carrow taking her place was worse than having to sit next to him. She looked ready to stab him to death with her fork at the slightest provocation. Flitwick was at his other side, holding some silent eye-conversation with Minerva as though Snape weren't even there. Snape stabbed at his chicken curry and strained the muscles in his face to keep from showing anything. 

All too soon the puddings appeared and Snape knew it was nearly time. He played his napkin between his hands, going over his lines in his head even though he knew them by heart, and when the plates emptied and people started shuffling in their seats he cleared his throat and stood up.

He held up a hand in greeting the way Dumbledore used to do. "Welcome, all of you, to a new year and a new era at Hogwarts School-"

There was an outbreak of angry hissing and indignant muttering from the Gryffindor table, led by Longbottom and Weasley. Hagrid growled from down the staff table and Minerva half-rose from her chair, pleading with them to stop, perhaps. 

Snape continued with his speech as though nothing had happened. "Over a thousand years ago, four witches and wizards of great renown raised a fortress of magic out of these windswept mountains, imbuing every stone with the breath of ancient spells so powerful they endure to this day. In so doing they created a sanctuary of magic, a place where their noble traditions could be passed down through the generations, like the magical blood that flowed through their veins-"

Weasley and Longbottom were talking even louder now, and people were turning to stare at them. Minerva was smirking, he was sure of it. Dammit. He'd been rather pleased with how his speech had turned out. Even Dumbledore liked it. 

"You are their heirs, here to learn this ancient magic, to control it, to use it for the betterment of wizardkind. It is not my wish that a single one of you be harmed-"

Minerva coughed loudly behind him. Snape ignored her. "Be that as it may, I must warn you that any attempt to undermine the leadership of this school will be dealt with swiftly and severely." The entire Hall was silent now, every eye on him. What he'd said was for their own safety more than his dignity, whatever was left of it, and he could only hope they'd be smart enough to listen. 

"I wish you all to work hard this year, to come together in fellowship-”

The cacaphony that Longbottom and Weasley started had spread through the hall like spilled water and now half the students were openly ignoring him, talking and hissing pounding their fists on the table and making as much noise as they possibly could. The Carrows shifted in their seats and glanced up at him, clearly expecting him to do something about it. He had to act, and quickly.

He flicked his wand towards the ceiling and set off an explosion that shocked the hall into a tense silence. He nodded to Filch, who shuffled towards the Gryffindor table grabbing Longbottom and Weasley by an arm and dragging them out of the hall. They were a good three or four inches taller than him, but he was wiry and strong. Minerva let in a sharp breath.

He would sooner harm himself than any of them. But they didn't know that. To them he was a murderer. 

He spoke slowly and clearly, trying to regain the flow of his speech. “And together we will build a glorious future.” That was it; he couldn’t think of anything more to say.

A round of applause broke out from the Slytherin table where Parkinson and Zabini and Nott were cheering. Even Draco was clapping. 

But the rest of the Hall was subdued, students whispering to each other or staring down at the table. There was no magic in this. 

He made a few announcements-the Quidditch season was still on, about 300 items had been banned, student organizations needed his approval-and then dismissed them, rubbing his forehead and sinking into his chair.

Minerva stayed in her seat and leaned over the table. "What have you done with Miss Weasley and Mr. Longbottom?"

"How I discipline the students is none of your concern, Minerva."

That was the wrong thing to say. Minerva slapped her hands on the table. "They are in my House and therefore very much my concern, Severus."

She didn't repeat her threat from the day before but it was written all over her face, and it hung in the air between them as her voice faded away. He said nothing to her, just stood up and made his way to Filch's office, Minerva at his heels. 

Longbottom and Weasley were sitting in a pair of rickety office chairs and Filch was standing over them with a pair of manacles in his hand and a glint in his eye, just waiting for Snape to give the go-ahead despite his earlier refusal. Snape might've been amused by this, if he hadn't just been humiliated in front of the entire school. He lowered his voice to its most threatening register, and this time he wasn't acting. 

"Your behaviour at the Welcoming Feast was nothing short of disgraceful. If I see any more displays like that you will be in serious trouble, do I make myself plain?"

Longbottom and Weasley said nothing, just glared back at him, and he was struck by how very tall they'd become, how much sharper and more adult their features were. 

"Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor, and you will spend every evening this week cleaning corridors with Filch. Fail to comply and your punishment will be far worse, do you understand?"

Weasley glanced at Longbottom, who twitched his shoulder an _if we must_ sort of way, and Miss Weasley nodded, her mouth tight. 

They shot out of their chairs without a second glance and were ushered out the door by Minerva, who would no doubt congratulate them on their cheek and warn them to never try anything like that again, don’t you know the headmaster is a murderer? Snape followed them into the Entrance Hall, where Miss Lovegood was drifting vaguely across the stones.

"Why are you out of your common room, Miss Lovegood?"

"I was just under the Ravenclaw table, looking for my socks." 

Snape didn't bother asking what they were doing down there in the first place. 

Miss Lovegood tucked a pair of mismatched socks into the pocket of her robes and fixed her rather large eyes on him. "You know, I don't think you're really Professor Snape."

"I-what?"

"The real Professor Snape was kidnapped by Scrimgeour and is being held captive in the Ministry-they've got a whole chamber underneath, you know, filled with cages. You're just a look-alike."

Snape had taught the girl for five years and couldn't bring himself to hate her. She was a talented enough potioneer, and yet there wasn't a shred of arrogance in her, except when she was going on about her bizarre theories. They were amusing, at least, and this one was no exception. 

"There's one problem with your theory," said Snape. "Scrimgeour's dead."

"Well it's obvious isn't it? He faked his own death. He's a vampire you know, they're very difficult to kill. It's all part of the Rotfang Conspiracy, that's why I brought along some Nargle wings, they protect against gum disease."

“Very logical of you.”

Miss Lovegood’s eyes widened and she was wary, as though she'd sensed some sudden danger. "You won't tell anyone I know this, will you?"

"I won't tell a soul."

"Oh good, I really don't want to end up in a cage underneath the Ministry. It's just too bad about Professor Snape, he was a bit mean but I did like him. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She drifted up the marble staircase and Snape followed behind, feeling just a bit lighter than he had before. 

*

Snape was up before dawn the next morning, so no one would see him slip into the kitchens. The elves were already awake and bustling about the place making breakfast and singing, a rhythmic, swaying chant that made him think of the old sea shanties his mother used to sing when she was doing the washing. He'd never asked her where she learned them. From his father maybe, or the neighbour women. 

The elves at the front of the room stopped singing and silence spread through the room like ripples in pond water.

"Headmaster," muttered a few at the front, lowering their heads in a bow. 

"I have an important task for you all," said Snape. "Do you know the Carrows?"

A few of the elves exchanged nervous glances. The house-elves could be Summoned by the staff whenever they needed them, and he supposed the Carrows were already busy abusing their privilege. 

"You will keep a close eye on them-their conversations, their absences from the castle, everything that goes on in their classrooms. If they harm anyone, or threaten anyone, you will report it to me immediately."

"Yes sir," said a few at the front. 

"You will also keep watch on the students, particularly the organization calling itself Dumbledore's Army."

"We is doing that sir."

"And I forbid you from telling anyone anything about me, except that I am a harsh master."

"We is saying nothing but that sir."

"You may return to your work."

The elves nodded and went back to whatever it was they were doing. Snape heard a few snatches of song as he left room.

He went back to the Headmaster's office, where six or seven barn owls had dropped letters on his desk, right beside a massive stack of paperwork. What the everloving fuck was all this?

Dumbledore had briefed him on his duties the year before, but he was still shocked by how much there was to do. The old man was always reading or knitting or listening to music, it seemed, and Snape wondered how on earth he'd found the time. 

He poured himself a large coffee and ripped open a bag of beef and onion crisps and somehow he got through it. He didn't mind hard work-he needed it, really, to keep his mind off everything-but this was every bit as mind-numbing as marking essays was.

He checked his watch-there were still a few hours until dinner. Perhaps he could sit and read for awhile, escape into another world. 

He was used to the elves but he started at the crack in the air. Dobby appeared, gazing past him at the portrait of Dumbledore behind his desk. 

"Dobby has information on Dumbledore's Army, sir!"

"What is it?"

"They is recruiting sir, and plans to hold more meetings."

Snape sighed. Longbottom had chosen a hell of a time to embrace his Gryffindor recklessness. 

The portrait of Dumbledore cleared his throat and Snape craned his neck to look at him.

"You must not let them organize openly," he said. "You will be expected to punish them harshly; not to do so would show weakness."

He wasn't telling Snape anything he didn't already know, but he kept his irritation to a minimum. "Shall I reinstate the ban on student organizations?" 

"As much as it pains me to reinstate Umbridge's ban, yes."

"Very well." This would only push them underground, of course, but he could deal with that later. He turned back to the elf. "Anything else?"

The elf shook his head, looking from Snape to the portrait. "You is friends, sir?"

"In a manner of speaking. And I forbid you from telling anyone."

"But why-”

“That’s a story for another time. Go.”

“Yes sir. Dobby sends his regards to Professor Dumbledore.”

“Likewise, Dobby,” said Dumbledore’s portrait.

The elf bowed to him and left, and when he was gone Snape sat down at his desk and rummaged around for another bag of crisps. 

"Have you deciphered that message yet?" said Dumbledore from behind him.

Snape ripped the bag open and answered him without turning around. "Is this your way of telling me I should crack on with it?"

"I don't think you need me to tell you that."

And the old man was right, of course. He'd have done it anyway. He pulled the parchment from his pocket and got to work. 

***

Graihagh hadn't left the hidden room in days. She ate and drank and slept and stared at the ceiling and not much else. She couldn't even bring herself to get up and make some basic potions to sell, though she desperately needed the money. 

All she could think about was Milo, and her family, and Snape. She thought she'd known him. He'd saved her life, kept her from becoming a Death Eater like Rowle, and yet he'd gone back to them himself. Nothing made sense.

Her watch said ten, but Aberforth had gotten too busy to bring up her meals and she’d gotten so off track she had no idea if it was morning or night. She Summoned some bread and mead out of the kitchen and she was nearly finished when there was a knock at the door.

"It's Remus."

"Shit," she muttered, setting her plate on the floor. She hadn't washed or changed her robes in days. She could crawl into bed and pretend to be alseep, but it sounded urgent, so she wiped the crumbs off her robes and sprayed herself with some rose water.

She opened the door and stayed a few feet away from Remus, face hot, but his mind was somewhere else, she could see it in his eyes. 

"I'm sorry to bother you, but it's an emergency. There've been some serious injuries and I need someone to administer potions. As quickly as you can."

"Is it members of the Order?"

"Not exactly, no."

He was being terribly vague about the whole thing, and Graihagh had a sinking feeling about whatever it was he wasn't saying. 

"Where are we going exactly?"

Remus lowered his eyes and Graihagh knew what he was going to say before he'd opened his mouth. "To a camp a ways south. It's a community of sorts. For people with lyncanthropy." 

Graihagh bit her lip and glanced away, picking her brain for some way out of it. She liked Remus, but what if he was the exception and the rest of them were every bit as vicious as everyone always said they were?"

"But I'm not a Healer. Can't you take them to St. Mungo's?" 

Remus' mouth twitched in a bitter smile. "Do you really think that's an option?"

Graihagh had known perfectly well why he couldn't take them to St. Mungo's, she remembered what Aberforth had said about lax security. She was just playing for time. 

"Look, I just don't think I'm the right person to ask-"

Remus scowled and it startled her, the furrows and lines on that affable face. She knew then, that he was under intense strain. 

"If you don't want to do it just come out and say so," he snapped. "I know what you really think of me. You've been making that perfectly clear ever since we met." 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

Remus paced the floor and rubbed his forehead as though it ached. "No, it's fine, it's fine. Let us die, that’s what we deserve, isn't it-that’s what-filthy, disgusting-"

His voice was strained and his body tense and she'd lived with herself and Milo long enough to know he'd reached his breaking point. 

He dropped to his knees and scratched at his face, over and over again, as though he were trying to erase himself. 

Graihagh knelt in front of him and touched his arm, the way she did with Milo. "Listen-please, just listen-tell me what they need and I'll get it and I'll go. I'll go right away."

Remus snatched his arm away and rubbed his eyes, breathing hard. Seconds passed, then minutes, as he got himself under control.

"One was hit with a paralysis curse," he said through his hands. "The other was badly scratched, she's bleeding out."

Graihagh Summoned two bottles off the shelf and glanced at Remus, who was still on his knees.

"If you just tell me where to go-" 

"I'll go with you," said Remus, but he didn't move.

"You don't have to-"

"I said I'm coming!"

Remus stood up and adjusted his robes as though he'd just sat down for a rest, and Graihagh was careful not to look at him too long. She knew how intensely self-conscious he must have felt, and yet in some strange way she was more comfortable with him, not less. She preferred the company of people who were as messed up as she was

She followed him down the back steps into the dark alley behind the Hog's Head. So it was nighttime. 

"Grab hold of my arm," he said. "I don't want to say the exact location of the camp out loud, in case Vol-"

"No!"

Remus dropped his arm. "What?"

Graihagh didn't know what she was saying. She only knew she had to say it. "Don't say You-Know-Who's name. It's been Tabooed, the Death Eaters can track your exact location." 

Remus gave her a quizzical look. "How do you know this?"

The answer was on the edge of her mind, like a dream she barely remembered. How the hell did she know? What if it wasn't even true and she was just talking nonsense? 

"An old Slytherin friend told me."

Remus looked as puzzled as she felt, but he nodded and offered her his arm. 

She grabbed hold and they spun into the air. 

*

The camp was spread though a stand of trees at the base of a rocky hill, besides a flowing stream. Graihagh had gone camping with her dad in the Lake Country and the place looked a lot like a Muggle campground, with multicoloured tents spaced a ways apart and groups of people sitting around fires. 

"Over here," said Remus, and he led her inside a canvas tent with a raised wooden platform. Two people were lying on camp beds, one as still as death, the other covered in blood. Graihagh knelt beside the bleeding woman. She was young, probably just out of Hogwarts. 

"She was attacked," said Remus. "I've applied Dittany, but it didn't take."

Graihagh pulled out her wand and traced the long jagged cut on the woman's face, singing the spell that Professor Snape had taught her so long ago. 

" _Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur_."

The woman's bleeding stopped and the wounds closed, leaving a thick pink scar across her face and neck. Graihagh glanced at Remus, who shook his head slightly, and she knew there was nothing more she could do for her, the scars would be permanent. She wondered if she should tell her. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to do it. 

She pulled the bottle of Blood-Replenishing Potion out of her robes and squeezed some into a dropper, remembering something she'd learned in a first-aid course years ago, about never administering liquids to someone lying down. 

"Can you lift your head?" she whispered to the woman.

The woman closed her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow, but it trembled and gave out. 

"It's alright," said Graihagh, She lifted the back of the woman's head with one hand and squeezed the potion into her mouth with the other. 

"There," she said, laying her back down. "That should take effect in a few minutes. But you'll still need to rest a few days."

The woman nodded and sank back into her pillow, and Graihagh stood up and tucked the empty bottle back into her robes.

"They were hit with a Paralysis Curse," said Remus, gesturing towards the grey-haired person on the bed. "I've performed the counter-curse but they still need a potion to manage the after-effects."

Graihagh pulled another bottle out of her robes and measured out exactly 5 mL of anti-paralytic potion. 

"Can they move at all?" 

"A bit," said Remus. "Do you need me to prop them up?"

"That'd be great." 

Remus lifted their head while Graihagh administered the first dose of potion, watching as the person twitched and shuddered as though doused with cold water. A sure sign that it'd worked. 

She set the potion and the measuring cup on the nightstand. "They'll need to take two 5 mL doses a day, for three days," she said to Remus. "If it doesn't seem to be working let me know straightaway, we may need to adjust the dosage."

Remus nodded. "Thank you."

"Yeah. Any time," said Graihagh, and she meant it, sort of. She still didn't know what to make of these people, but she didn't want to see any of them in pain. 

They left the tent and stood outside, Remus shifting on his feet. She could still see the marks on his face where he'd scratched himself and she wondered if he felt them, if he was thinking about them, afraid for her to see them. She knew he was keen for her to go but she couldn't bear the thought of going back to that cramped room so soon, and she wanted him to know she wasn't afraid of him, or anyone else at the camp, even though she was, a little. 

"Well..." said Remus.

"Yeah." Graihagh leaned forwards slightly and kept looking at him, to show him she wasn't in a hurry to leave. 

Remus gestured towards the fire. "Would you like to stay for a bit? You must be feeling cooped up."

"I'd love to," said Graihagh, sighing a little in relief. 

Remus sat down in a canvas camp chair and Graihagh took another chair opposite him. They were the only ones there, and she sank back and watched the crackling fire, tense muscles relaxing, the smell of wood smoke reminding her of all those camping trips with her dad and Cate and Milo.

"Butterbeer?" said Remus, reaching into a box beside his feet. 

"That'd be great."

Remus handed her a Butterbeer and she twisted the cap and took a long swig. A simple thing, sitting by a campfire with a warm drink, but it felt so good after months in that cramped room there were tears in her eyes. 

"Must be nice after being stuck in that room," said Remus, as though he'd read her mind.

"It feels amazing," said Graihagh, and Remus smiled. The scene in her room was still on his mind, she could tell by how hard he was trying to act normal, cheerful, and Graihagh didn't know how to explain to him that there wasn't anything wrong with what he'd done. She'd watched Milo do the same thing. She'd done it herself. 

And anyway, he was talking to someone who hadn’t had a proper wash in three days.

"We live and work together," said Remus, gesturing around the camp. "We have to move around a bit, but it's not a bad life, really. We grow and hunt our own food, share everything we have. We're like family."

"Sounds nice."

"It is. Of course, it does have its downsides. It's very difficult to re-integrate into ordinary wizarding society, for one thing. 'Community coordinator for werewolf cooperative' doesn't exactly look good on a resume."

"That's stupid. It takes a lot of brains to run a self-sufficient community like this."

Remus gave her an indulgent smile, as though he thought she was trying to humour him but appreciated the effort. "I'm glad to hear you say it. If everyone thought like you we'd have no trouble."

Graihagh wondered if this was a challenge, or a subtle dig, because it wasn't that long ago she'd thought like everyone else. 

"So do you have family here?" said Graihagh, thinking of his wife. She wondered why she wasn't with him. 

Remus glanced down and ran a hand through his hair. "No. I'm here on a mission." His voice was flat and distant, and Graihagh sensed she'd hit a nerve. Maybe he wasn't able to see her as much as he'd like, and it was stressing him out. She changed the subject.

"So how is everything going with the Order? I mean, if you can tell me."

Remus sighed and stretched his legs. "There's not much to tell, unfortunately. Did you know the Death Eaters have taken over the Ministry?"

"Yeah. Sna-someone told me."

Remus' brow furrowed but he must've thought he'd heard wrong, because his expression relaxed, and Graihagh silently thanked Merlin that she hadn’t taken Snape up on that Unbreakable Vow. 

"Harry Potter and his friends were set some sort of mission by Dumbledore, but they won't tell anyone what it is," said Remus. "The rest of us are doing what we can resist the new regime. A few people have started a radio programme on the wireless, Kingsley Shacklebolt's protecting the Muggle prime minister, Hestia Jones is tailing Death Eaters, Arthur's still working for the Ministry. I don't know if you've heard but they've started rounding-up Muggle-borns."

"What? No."

Remus' expression was kind, understanding. "I'm afraid so."

Graihagh stood up and paced in front of the fire as though by moving she could somehow _do_ something about it. 

"Something wrong?" said Remus. 

"My best friend is Muggle-born. Cate Aubrey, do you know her? She's in the Order."

"I know of her. Her husband works in the Ministry, so he'll have had time to warn her, get her into hiding. He's an Auror, so I'm sure she's perfectly safe."

Remus' voice was calm, unworried, and it put her at ease. She sat back down in the camp chair. 

"Did you know your other friends are here?" said Remus. "Fynn Kelly and Milo Selwyn?"

Graihagh nearly shot out of her chair again. "What? Where?"

"They're out on a mission at the moment. They should be back any time now."

Graihagh could've cried with relief, and yet she was furious that Fynn would bring Milo to a place like this. The camp was alright for werewolves, but what was Milo supposed to do when they transformed? 

She turned her face away and took a long drink of Butterbeer, struggling to keep her expression neutral. She didn't want Remus to know how upset she was, not when he’d finally relaxed. She tried to think of something nice to say. 

"So do you and Fynn know each other?" she asked as she set her empty bottle down. 

Remus stood up to put another log on the fire. "As a matter of fact, yes. Fynn started Hogwarts when I was in my seventh year. We were in different houses but Dumbledore introduced us, and I sort of took them under my wing."

Remus sat back down and took a long drink. "We were a bit reckless, my friends and I. We...got a bit carried away. I don't think Fynn liked it much. But we were hard to refuse."

His voice was bitter, self-deprecating, and Graihagh knew he regretted it, whatever it was they'd done.

Graihagh stared into the fire, thinking about Fynn and their worn-out clothes and the trouble they'd had finding work. Fynn was so calm and level-headed-one of the most calm and level-headed people Graihagh knew, besides her dad-but she'd always sensed an underlying sadness there, in the way they shrugged off praise, the way they'd walk down the street with their hands in their pockets, not looking at anyone. 

"Did people give Fynn a hard time at school?"

"Not when my friends and I were around. But after we left, things got...well, not good, let’s put it that way.”

Graihagh felt bad for Fynn, and yet the anger she'd felt since they'd left with Milo was wedged too firmly for her to let go. 

Remus handed her another Butterbeer and they were quiet awhile, drinking and watching the fire. The silence wasn't exactly comfortable, but that was hardly to be expected after all the times Graihagh had put her foot in her mouth. 

"The stars are so bright here," she said. "Reminds me of home." 

"Where are you from?"

"The Isle of Man."

"Ah, yes. I was there once for the TT races. Lovely place."

Graihagh snatched the bottle away from her mouth and wiped her lips with the sleeve of her robes. "Get out of here, you've been to the TT?"

Remus smiled. "Well, I'm afraid I can't take credit for the idea. I had a close friend with a motorbike obsession and he insisted we go. I'm glad I did though, it was a lot of fun."

Graihagh grasped at this thin thread that connected him to her, to her home. "My family goes every year, I love it."

"I might have to go again myself, though I have to admit I was rather white-knuckled the last time."

"Oh I know. Every time someone turns a corner I think they're going to crash. I have to cover my eyes sometimes."

"Same here. My friend used to take the piss out me of over it. I think he was _hoping_ for a crash." 

Graihagh smiled, thinking she might just sit by the fire with him all night, if they could last that long.

The night air was rent with cracks and she thought it must be thunder even though she'd just been looking up at the clear sky. Then she remembered-Milo and Fynn were due back. She stood up and strode towards the crowd of people that had appeared, heart pounding, searching for any sign of Milo's face, wondering why there were so many shouts and flashes of light. 

" _Stupefy_!" A robed figure slumped to the ground. 

Graihagh turned towards the voice and saw Remus standing behind her with his wand raised. "Greyback loyalists," he said. 

"What?"

"We've broken away from Greyback and they've been giving us hell ever since. You'd better get out of here, and quickly."

So the werewolves were fighting each other, and Milo was right in the thick of it. "But my friends-"

"They'll be fine. Now go. They're out to kill."

Graihagh never put herself in dangerous situations if she could help it, she'd had enough of that when she was younger. But she couldn't leave Milo.

She pelted towards the crowd, pulling her wand out of her robes and aiming it at the first figure she saw.

" _Petrificus Totalus_!" 

The figure went rigid as a concrete block and toppled to the ground. 

"Graihagh!

Milo was running towards her, wand held out in front of him. He'd nearly reached her when a jet of green light shot past them, so close she could feel its heat.

" _INCARCEROUS_!" shouted Fynn from somewhere behind them. The figure who'd cast the spell slumped to the ground, bound with ropes.

"You need to get out of here," said Milo. "Now."

"But-"

"We'll be fine, don't worry. Just go."

"I can't-"

"GO!"

Milo sounded frustrated now and Graihagh's face was hot, eyes stinging. If only she were better at dueling, she could stay and help them. But she was just getting in the way. 

"If you die I will fucking kill you," she shouted. Milo gave her a mock salute and she turned to run, not stopping until the voices were far behind her.

Something wasn't right. There were muffled sounds in the grass out of sync with her own footsteps. 

"Thought you'd be clever and try to run, did you?" snarled a low, rasping voice. "Just as well, I enjoy a challenge-"

"No-"

Graihagh raised her arms and spun in the air just as the jet of light hit her. Her chest was tight and everything was dark and she couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Of all the shitty times to go. She hadn't even had the chance to test her new potion. She gasped for air but she was lightheaded and dizzy.

The air thinned as though she'd been released from a chokehold and the insides of her eyelids were red from an outside light, but she still couldn't breathe. She gasped and opened her eyes and there was a circle of light on the cobblestone street. 

_You're not dying, you're not dying_. 

She said it to herself over and over again, feeling the stones and listening to the creak of the wooden sign above her, until her she could get a deep breath. She knew this place, she was right outside the Hog's Head Inn. 

She propped herself up on her hands and knees but she was too tired to stay upright and she lay back down again. Something was wrong. Her left sleeve was wet and she smelled like damp metal. 

She was alone in the Hogwarts corridor, screaming without a sound and watching her blood run down the stones. 

_This isn't real. Ride it out._

But it must've been real, because she was bleeding, and no one was coming for her. Snape had saved her that first time, maybe he'd save her again. 

Her mind was all static but somewhere underneath it she remembered the coin Snape had given her. She thrust her hand into the pocket of her robes. She couldn't get a good grip on it, her hand was too weak, but she pressed down as well as she could, and after a few seconds the metal glowed white.

"It's me. I'm...outside the Hog's Head. I need help." 

She didn't have the strength left to put the coin back in her pocket. Her head was spinning and her shoulder had begun to throb and she thought she'd throw up. She focused all her energy on holding the coin in her hand so it wouldn't slip away, and closed her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for werewolf communes comes from the Great Wizarding War podcast (which features the amazing Morgana Ignis as Snape, and which I can't recommend enough if you're into first war-era fics) 
> 
> I've made a slight change to chapter 7-instead of buying a gold cauldron, Graihagh can't access her Gringott's account and is given an old pewter cauldron by Aberforth instead. It's a very slight change and definitely not necessary to go back and re-read anything, I just didn't want things to be too easy for her :)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Snape had forgotten that the Corlett woman still had the coin he'd given her. He supposed he'd been too preoccupied to ask for it back, and he regretted it now. This was a trap, it had to be. There was only a sliver of a chance she was really in danger.

But that sliver had gotten him out of bed, that and the Death Eaters stationed in Hogsmeade he could use as backup, if necessary. He kept his wand held out in front of him as he made his way into the village, listening for the faintest whisper of an incantation. 

She was lying on the cobblestone street in front of the Hog's Head, pale and sweating, and he might've been back in that fifth-floor corridor, watching her slip away. He forgot about ambushes and Order members and ran to her. 

Her left shoulder was soaked in blood. He worked her torn sleeve open and tapped his wand to the missing flesh. 

" _Regenero_."

"Can you hear me?" he said as he pulled a bottle of dittany out of his robes.

"Yeah," she murmured.

"You've splinched yourself. I've healed the wound, now I'm going apply dittany to prevent scarring."

He poured a few drops of dittany into the freshly healed wound and her scars vanished in a puff of smoke. He capped the bottle and shoved it into his pocket, fuming. She had some nerve, Disapparating in the middle of the night and getting herself injured.

"Where the hell were you?"

"Order business," she mumbled. "Can't tell you."

"You do realise that if I hadn't shown up you would've bled to death?"

"Well, you did show up, so it's alright."

"Your critical thinking skills are extraordinary," spat Snape, but there was no time for a dressing-down. She was lying in a pool of light from the windows of the Hog's Head, and he wouldn't be surprised if there were a few Death Eaters inside. They had to get out of there, and quickly. 

Her skin was so clammy and cold he knew she couldn't walk, couldn't even sit up most likely. He conjured a stretcher and lifted her onto it, careful not to raise her head too quickly. 

"Where am I taking you?" he said. He knew perfectly well where she was staying, but she didn't need to know that.

"The back entrance of the Hog's Head," said Miss Corlett. "You'll need this." She reached into her pocket and handed him an iron-grey key, her hand so limp she could barely hold onto it. 

"You'd better be alone," he warned her. Her injury had been real enough, but it still could've been a trap. 

"I am."

Snape unlocked the door and maneuvered the stretcher up the stairs and to the door at the end of the hallway.

"You have to tap a rhythm against the wall with your wand," said Miss Corlett. Snape drew his wand and she demonstrated the rhythm by tapping her hands against the stretcher. Snape copied the rhythm with his wand and a door appeared. 

The room was small and cramped, with a low sloping ceiling and dozens of boxes and barrels shoved up against the walls. A makeshift work table stood at one end of the room, under a shelf laden with coloured bottles and jars of ingredients, most of them nearly empty. An lamp in the corner cast a dull orange glow over everything and he smelled dust and dried herbs and the oily funk of unwashed bedding, not unpleasant. 

He set the stretcher down and helped her onto the thin mattress she was using as a bed. The sheets were bunched up and there was a plate of food lying beside them and books and clothes scattered everywhere. Cleanliness obviously wasn't one of her priorities. 

"Do you have any Blood-Replenishing Potion?" he asked, scanning her work table for the blood-red mixture.

"No. I used my last bottle."

"On what?"

"Can't tell you."

So. She didn't trust him enough to tell him what she was up to, but she trusted him enough to let him into her room, where there was no one to save her if he decided to finish her off. She wasn't making any damn sense.

He knelt down beside her mattress. "A bit risky asking me for help, don't you think? How do you know I'm not going to harm you? That I'm not going to tell Rowle exactly where you are?"

"Because you would've done it already."

"How do you know I haven't changed my mind?"

Miss Corlett studied his face. "Because I just know."

Snape looked back at her and saw a flash of himself bent over her as she lay in the corridor, of the two of them working together on a potion. He didn't know what he felt. The sharp reply at the edge of his mind caught in his throat and died away. 

Miss Corlett pulled the blanket over herself and curled up on her side, breathing hard from the effort. She would need a few days' rest, but he supposed Aberforth would look after her. He stood up and walked to the door. 

Her voice was so quiet he barely heard her. 

"Professor?" 

He turned around. 

"Will you stay with me? Just until I go to sleep?"

She must have been out of her mind, or maybe just disoriented from the blood loss. There was no way she should've felt safe with him beside her. No one did. 

He ran a finger along the silver serpent fastening on his cloak, wishing he could just ignore her and walk away. But he couldn't. He turned around and conjured a wooden chair. 

"Thank you," she whispered, closing her eyes. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chin and curled up into a ball, shivering. Snape noticed that the room was rather draughty, probably because there wasn't any fireplace. 

He sat and watched as her breathing slowed and her shivering stopped. Sometimes she'd turn over or whimper or mumble something he couldn’t understand. 

He scanned the covers of the books beside her bed. _Healing Poison: A New Approach to Venom_ , _Tectosilicates and Their Uses in Potion-Making_. He was tempted to thumb through them. 

He couldn't read the title of the third book, the letters were too ornate, but the cover showed a picture of a half-naked vampire biting into the neck of the shirtless man she'd pinned beneath her. Snape's face flushed and he was too aware of Miss Corlett's breathing, her scent, those long legs underneath the blanket. Not that she was in any way attractive, but still. The space had become too small, too personal. Time to get out. 

Miss Corlett started her sleep, shivering and pushing her arms under her chest. Without really thinking Snape pulled out his wand and conjured a thick woolen blanket, draping it over the thin one she'd curled up in and tucking it under her shoulders. He didn't know what made him do it. Maybe all the stress of the last few weeks was addling his brain. Or maybe it was that she looked so bloody cold. He pictured the way she'd smirk when she woke up and saw it, like he was some stupid storybook cliché, The Death Eater Who Had a Heart. He couldn't _stand_ it. What was he thinking?

He knelt down beside her and tapped his wand to her head. He could make her forget he'd stayed with her, make her think Aberforth had given her the blanket.

Seconds passed, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he didn’t know why.

Miss Corlett's eyes opened. "Professor?" she murmured. "What are you doing?"

Of course she would have to wake up at the worst possible moment. "I wasn't-I was just..."

Miss Corlett looked down at the blanket. "Did you conjure this?" 

"I-well..."

Miss Corlett smirked. She was _gloating_. Damn it all to hell. That smug, insufferable-

"Thank you so much," she whispered. "I've been freezing my arse off in here."

"If you hadn't failed your Transfiguration exam you could've conjured yourself ten blankets by now."

She rolled her eyes and Snape left the room with out another look at her, cursing himself all the way back to the castle.

  
*

When Snape opened his eyes the sky outside his bedroom window was dark and he supposed he'd woken up in the middle of the night again. He could've taken a sleeping draught and caught a few more hours but instead he Summoned a book off the shelves, relishing the quiet. No one came to his office this early, not even the house-elves.

The bed he slept in was his own, shrunk with a charm and brought up from the dungeons, with a a simple wooden headboard and a thick grey duvet that matched his nightshirt. Dumbledore’s bed had been a work of art, phoenixes and dragons carved into the mahagony headboard, gauzy curtains hanging from the posts, silk sheets. Snape couldn’t bring himself to look at it. He'd Vanished it, beautiful as it was. 

Dumbledore had left most of his personal things to Elphias and Minerva, but Snape kept some of his books and silver instruments in his room. The place was nearly empty, no furniture except his bed and a squashy armchair and his old nightstand, where he kept his letters and photographs of Lily. The stone walls and the bare floor gave it the feel of a prison cell, which in a way it was. 

He sat on his bed and read awhile, but all too soon the sun rose from behind the mountains and it was time to carry on with his headmastering. There was a fat stack of requisition forms with an ominous all-day look about them waiting on his desk. He skipped breakfast and poured himself an enormous coffee as he looked them over. 

The staff was having him on. There was no way Minerva needed a hundred ferrets, Slughorn did _not_ need bioluminescent algae harvested off the shores of Puerto Rico for school-level potions, and if Trelawney wanted to balance her chakras she could do it herself and not with 200 galleons worth of healing crystals. He thrust a rejection stamp onto a pad of red ink and slammed it onto every piece of parchment, one after another. When he was finally finished he summoned a house-elf to deliver them to the staff. 

If they thought they could get rid of him via tedious paperwork they were probably right. He'd been at it one day and already he felt like drowning himself in the lake. 

"Long day, Headmaster?" said Phineas' voice from somewhere above him.

"The worst."

"Well, I must say, your work ethic is extraordinary. You are the most noble, the most industrious, the most clever-"

"That will do, Phineas," said Snape, even though he was chuffed. He craved whatever scraps of praise he could get, but just the same, he didn't deserve them. 

"My most sincere apologies, Headmaster. Anyway, I thought you might want to know that Potter and Weasley and that Granger Mudblood-"

Snape slammed his fist down on the desk. "Do not use that word!"

Phineas gave him a quizzical look. "Anyway, they've left the house of my ancestors and they're on the run, don't ask me where, I have no idea. The girl had the audacity to stuff me into her bag and blindfold me of all things-"

Dumbledore cut him off. "That reminds me. Severus, did you make a replica of the sword?"

Snape reached under his desk and held out the fake sword of Gryffindor he'd spent an entire day making. 

"Good, good," said Dumbledore. "Now, there's hidden chamber behind my portrait where you can keep real sword. As soon as we get word on Potter's location, you will need to give it to him."

Snape nodded and did as he'd asked. The fake sword would never hold up under close scrutiny, but it was good enough for now.

"What exactly is Potter attempting to accomplish?" said Snape as he locked the chamber and pushed Dumbledore's portrait back in its place.

"That is between us, Severus."

Snape made a frustrated noise and wheeled around so he wouldn't have to look at him. Even now, after everything he'd done for him, after taking his life and losing the respect of the only people he remotely cared about, he was still not going to tell him. 

Oh, but he'd tell Potter. He'd coddle Potter and he'd praise Potter and he'd protect Potter the way he'd never bothered to do with him, because he was never good enough for that kind of attention. 

But what was it all for? So the boy could die at the right time. In the end, Potter didn't mean any more to Dumbledore than Snape had. They were pawns, the two of them. Part of someone else's plan. 

Only the old man's four-dimensional chess level of scheming could give him this sense of kinship with the boy. He shrugged it off. The last thing he needed was to feel anything. He had a job to do and he was going to do it and that was all. 

He still had an hour or two of free time before dinner, so he sat down at his desk with Dumbledore's old copy of _Joy in the Morning_ and read for awhile, Paracelcus in his lap. He rather liked that Jeeves fellow, and Aunt Agatha. 

He'd been reading maybe thirty minutes when one of the elves appeared with a crack. 

"The Carrows is threatening one of the students sir!"

For fuck's sake. They were barely two weeks into the new term. He hadn't authorised this. 

"Where are they?"

"In the Muggle Studies classroom, sir."

Snape swept out of the room and down the steps to the first floor. He could hear Alecto's voice all the way down the corridor, a sharp static crackle. 

He was in tight spot with the Carrows. The Dark Lord had appointed them his deputy headmistress and headmaster, but Snape hadn't bothered to tell either of them what that meant, or the kind of privileges that came with it. He'd been holding on to the hope that they'd be content with their teaching posts and their increased status among the Death Eaters, but it was clear that they craved more power, and he didn't know what to do about it. 

He paused outside the door, wracking his brains for some kind of solution, but his mind was blank. Alecto shouted and a deeper voice answered and Snape pushed the door open and went inside. 

His eyes searched the room, at the posters of Muggles lining the walls and the painting of a beautiful witch being burned at the stake. At the models of warplanes and hydrogen bombs on her desk that brought back memories of wrecked buildings in Cokeworth they'd never bothered to rebuild. Snape didn't know what he felt as he looked at them. Maybe the Death Eaters were right, he didn't know, didn't care. This was about Lily and all the other innocent people they'd killed. 

Alecto was standing beside her desk, her wand pointed to Longbottom's chest. Longbottom was breathing fast but his brows were furrowed, mouth set in a hard line, as though he was determined not to give her the satisfaction of showing fear. 

"What is going on here?" said Snape, keeping his voice cool and unconcerned, bored almost, though he was frustrated with both of them. 

"This disrespectful brat has been making trouble since the start of term, Headmaster," said Alecto. "He sasses me, he interrupts during lessons, he tells lies about those filthy Muggles-"

"You're the one telling lies," said Longbottom, his voice shaking slightly. 

"You see what I mean, Headmaster? We've got ourselves a little hothead. I think the Cruciatus Curse might cool him off a bit. Break his spirit, do you know what I mean?"

"That won't be necessary, Alecto," said Snape in a bored voice. "Longbottom can barely stand a cauldron the right way up. He's no threat to anyone but himself. A week's worth of detentions should be sufficient."

Alecto wasn't pleased, he could tell. But she lowered her wand. "Alright then. Detention, Longbottom. Seven o'clock tonight. You'll be cleaning my classroom."

Longbottom jerked his arm away and Alecto scowled at his backside as he strode out of the room.

“Don’t you think you were a bit soft on him, Headmaster?”

Snape stood on the toes of his boots to put as many inches as possible between himself and his shorter colleague. “An astute observation, Professor Carrow. Tell me, how long have you been teaching?”

Alecto looked flustered. “Well, this is only my first year but-”

“Well. Despite your lack of experience I don’t doubt you’re a font of teaching wisdom. However, as Headmaster I believe it is my job to determine how we discipline the students.”

Alecto's skin flushed red and her eyes flashed. “Of course, Headmaster,” she said, her voice too resentful for his liking. 

He swept out of the room without another word to her and walked back to his office, the clack of his boots expressing all the angry words floating around in his mind. The nerve of that upstart, criticising his discliplinary methods.

He pulled a bag of Maltesers out of his desk and slammed the drawer shut, shoving them into his mouth and chewing indignantly. 

"In one of your moods again?" said one of the portraits. "Going to throw something at the wall today?"

"Shut up, Armando," said Snape through a mouthful of malted chocolate. He wiped his face and turned to Phineas. "Any word on Potter's location?"

"Not a thing," said Phineas. "And their mood swings have become _dreadful_. Merlin save me."

"Are things not going well?"

"Apparently not, judging by all the fighting and complaining. But then no one tells me anything."

Snape sank down in his desk chair. What the hell could Dumbledore had been thinking, leaving everything in the hands of a seventeen-year-old boy?

"Harry will be fine, Severus," said Dumbledore from behind him, but Snape couldn't help notice the lack of expression in his voice, as though he'd just said the words out of habit. Snape wondered if he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

*

Snape was tempted to skip dinner again, but he instead he made his way to the Great Hall, as nervous and tense as a teenager looking for a table to sit at. 

The first time Snape had sat down to dinner Hogwarts, that first Welcoming Feast, he'd only put a few pieces of food on his plate and snuck the rest under his robes to eat later, sure that they wouldn't be allowed too much. Lucius had tapped his arm and asked what he was doing and Snape didn't know how to explain, he'd just set the food back on the table, blushing, horrified that he'd made such a stupid blunder his first day. He thought Lucius would take the piss, but he just smiled and patted his back and explained that he could take as much food as he liked, the plates even refilled themselves. Snape ate until he was sick. 

Even after he'd joined the teaching staff and he was drained by the end of the day, he sometimes liked going to the Great Hall for dinner. The food was good, he didn't have to cook it, and he could eat as much as he liked. Minerva or Flitwick or Sprout would sometimes engage him in conversation, but he didn't mind so much, they had interesting things to say, and they'd tease each other mercilessly over Quidditch or house points. Sometimes he and Minerva would even talk Muggle politics. One mention of the Tories or Thatcher and she'd be off on a red-faced rant that would make even the most hardened Cokeworth mill worker proud and he'd feel less alone, less _other_. She had a Muggle father too, and they weren't all that well off, from what she'd told him. 

Snape sat down in the headmaster's chair and filled his plate with spaghetti bolognese. Minerva made no sign that that he was even there. 

"Could you pass the salt, please?" she said.

The salt shaker was right in front of him, but Minerva was talking over him, looking at Flitwick. 

"Certainly," said Flitwick, bending over to reach the shaker and handing it to Minerva. 

Snape wasn't even good enough for her anger. He just wasn't there. He picked at his food and left after only ten minutes or so. He could feel the Carrows watching him all the way out the Great Hall. Fuck. He was the headmaster of the most prestigious wizarding school in Europe and he felt like a teenager no one liked. 

His desk was clear at least, free of paperwork, so he sat down with a book until he forgot about everything else. After awhile he turned on the wireless and lit some candles as the sound of violins drifted across the room. He pulled the coded message and the vial out of his desk drawer, tracing his lips with a long finger. 

After days of tedious paperwork his mind relished the challenge. The code was complex enough to engage him but not so complex as to frustrate him, and he lost himself in the work, the world shrunk down to these symbols on the paper and the music in his ears and the candlelight flickering across his desk. He worked for hours, until the final piece of the puzzle had fallen into place and his eyelids were heavy.

The words on the parchment jolted him awake, the horror of it too much for him to process. He didn't understand. Someone knew something, they hadn't just come across the vial by accident. And yet no one had said a word about it. 

And what was more, he doubted he'd have time to come up with a solution, on top of everything else he had to do. He needed an antidote, he needed one fast, and there was only one person left to help him. 

He stood up and stared out the window. The Dark Lord was abroad and it had been weeks since he'd been summoned to the manor. He could put in a few extra hours of work during mealtime and breaks, then use the evenings to come up with an antidote. The Corlett woman was a skilled potioneer, she'd been the only one of his students to make an antidote in the one-hour time limit, but he had more experience than her, and who better to do it than him? What if he was just looking for an excuse to see her again, to contact her? Was he really this _weak_?

He went to bed without answering his question, and had a troubled sleep, filled with faces and voices, and the loudest of all was Professor Burbage, calling his name as she spun farther and farther away. 

***

Rowle was standing over Cate with a dagger in his fist, his eyes manic, senseless. Graihagh reached out to stop him but she couldn't get there in time, her arms and legs were heavy as lead. Rowle raised the dagger and Cate collapsed on the ground with her face covered in blood. 

Graihagh woke up but everything was black, so black she wasn't sure she'd opened her eyes at all and she must've been dying, she must've lost too much blood, her eyes weren't working and she was going to pass out. 

Someone was screaming and a light came on and rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and tipped something down her throat. 

The room came into focus like she'd adjusted the antenna on a staticky television. Aberforth's face was a few inches from her own and she could smell beer and tobacco on his breath, a comforting scent, almost homey. He'd lit the lamp in the corner and Graihagh supposed it must've gone out while she was sleeping. 

"What the hell just happened?" he said, putting the cap back on a bottle of calming draught. 

"Nightmare," said Grahaigh, the potion blunting her embarrassment to a faint twinge. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Don't worry about it. Remus wanted me to check up on you anyway, make sure you got back."

She remembered something about a werewolf camp and Milo but it felt like weeks ago.

"What happened to you?" said Aberforth, looking her over. "You're as pale as a vampire's arse."

"Splinched. I lost a bit of blood."

"That's an understatement, by the looks of it. I've got a broth that'll help you get some of your strength back. I'll send some up later."

"That'd be perfect, thanks."

He tapped the thick grey blanket on Graihagh's bed. "Where'd you get this?" 

She stared at it a few seconds, not understanding, and when the memory came back to her she ran a hand along a fold in the wool and raised the other to her face to hide her smile. Snape had conjured her a blanket. The miserable git didn't want her to be cold. 

"Something funny?"

"No, it's just...a friend of mine dropped in and gave it to me." She traced the blanket with a finger and looked back at Aberforth. "Could I ask a favour of you?" 

"What's that?"

"If I make some basic potions, would you be able to sell them for me down at the bar? Headache Potion and that sort of thing?"

"I s'pose I could."

"Cheers Ab."

Aberforth stood up and put the potion back on the shelf, and when he'd gone Graihagh lay back down in the bed and pulled the blankets around herself. The one Snape had given her was so _warm_. She was going to find it hard to get out bed in the morning, or whenever it was she woke up. 

There was no question of getting up now though, she was tired and weak and her head ached. 

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift to pleasant things, but the nightmare was always lurking in the background, threatening to break through the fragile protection offered by the potion, as though it was already wearing off. The dream was an old one that she'd started having it after the attack at Hogwarts, but she hadn't had it in years. She hoped she'd never have it again. But she wasn't surprised it had come back. She deserved it. 

She slept a long time, until there was a knock at the door and Aberforth appeared with a steaming bowl of bone broth. Graihagh sipped it slowly, savouring the warmth. When she'd finished eating she stood up, slowly so as not to get too dizzy, and hobbled over to her workspace. 

She needed something interesting to motivate her, something she could get lost in, so she decided to experiment with her own potion first. 

She'd known about healing herbs since she was a little girl, digging in her granny's garden and listening to her talk on and on about feverfew and ginger and chamomile, delicate earth-smelling plants that they'd pick and dry and store in her kitchen. Sometimes when Graihagh had a headache or cramps her granny would take some meadowsweet-lus vilish ny lleeannagh, she called it-and make a strong hot tea for her to take the pain away. Graihagh had long wondered if it could be tweaked with magic, and after years of experimenting she finally hit on something she thought would work, a combination of meadowsweet, cannabidiol, and another organic compound that would, she hoped, work directly on the muscle without depressing the central nervous system and causing nasty side-effects. 

She loved the work but a guilty voice nagged at her the whole time, urging her to make something that would earn her some money. She couldn't exactly send a sample of her new potion off to the Ministry to be patented, not when the place was full of Death Eaters. 

She was so tired by the time she'd finished she crawled into bed and slept again, and when she woke up and had more broth she got to work on some Headache Solution and Invigoration draught. She'd been in the business long enough to know which potions would sell. 

She drifted into a routine, sleeping and working and eating something to get her strength back and sleeping again. Aberforth came up one day and gave her the profits off her first batch of potions, nearly thirty galleons. 

She had a decision to make. She could order the ingredients for Wolfsbane, which would leave her flat-out broke and unable to make more potions to sell. Or she could order ingredients for her other potions, and leave Remus without his next month's dose. In the end she decided on the Wolfsbane, cursing Snape for leaving her in this mess.

But she couldn't stay angry with him, not when he'd saved her life and conjured her a blanket so she wouldn't get cold. A small thing, but it made such a difference, being able to keep warm in that draughty room. She didn't understand anything about him, couldn't imagine what kinds horrible things he must've been doing with the Death Eaters, but she knew he wouldn't hurt her, and that was something. 

She was afraid to go to sleep. Every night she saw Cate's slashed face or heard Milo screaming in the garden shed. He never would've have gone off hunting Rowle if it hadn't been for her.

One night-maybe the third or fourth night since she'd started working on her potions again, she'd lost track-she came to in the little room she used for washing, and she couldn't remember how she got there. All she could remember was waking in panic. She stood up on shaky legs and walked over to her nightstand for the calming draught. But the bottle was empty, and there was nothing else she could take.

She sat on her mattress and rubbed her face with her hands. She couldn't do this anymore, she needed something, something strong, something to make her forget. 

She'd done her share of clubbing and she knew the best places, clubs where you could buy shit as easily as ordering takeaway. Her Manx pound notes were useless there, but could give Aberforth a few galleons, pay him to change some money over for her, Apparate to one of her old haunts. 

She sat on her mattress and Summoned up some drinks from the bar and thought about it. She drank until her eyes drooped and crawled into her bed to sleep some more. 

*

Graihagh was woken by a knock on the door, four light raps that could only mean Remus. Her mouth was dry and her head ached like there was a pendulum swinging against her skull and she had no idea how long she'd been sleeping, but her first thought was that something horrible had happened to Milo. She shot out of bed and yanked the door open.

"Is Milo alright?" 

"He's fine," said Remus. "The Greyback loyalists retreated not long after you left."

Graihagh let out a shaky breath and stood back to let Remus in. He looked, as usual, like he'd gotten lost in the woods and walked fifty miles without stopping, with his windswept hair and patched robes and his tired, red eyes. 

"Are you feeling well?" he said, and Graihagh wondered if he was seeing a bit of himself in her pale skin and messy hair and wrinkled robes. 

"I'm fine." She walked over to her shelf and handed Remus a bottle. "I have your Wolfsbane. I could only make you a month's worth. I'm a bit short on funds."

She gave him an apologetic look, hoping she wasn't being too obvious, and at the same time hoping he'd take the hint and give her some money. 

"Thank you," said Remus. "And no worries, I don't really need it. I was just wondering if you had any more potions for the Order?"

Graihagh couldn't believe him. She'd just spent nearly every last galleon on Wolfsbane ingredients and here he was, telling her he didn't even need it. She sucked in her breath, trying and failing to keep the frustration out of her voice. "Well, no. I only had enough ingredients for the Wolfsbane."

"Oh," said Remus. He glanced away, tapping his fingers against the bottle and shifting on his feet. Graihagh had no idea what to say. 

He set the bottle down and stepped towards her work table. "That's a nice setup you've got there." 

"Thanks."

He picked up a vial of rattlesnake venom without really seeing it, turning it in his fingers. "I was never much of a potioneer myself. It was my friend who had all the talent. She used to whisper instructions to me in class."

Graihagh had no idea what this had to do with anything, but she sensed Remus wasn't well, and she was keen to keep the conversation going. "Did she become a potioneer?"

Remus set the vial down. "No. She never got the chance."

"That's too bad." Graihagh rocked foward on the balls of her feet and though she didn't ask him what was going on, her face must have.

Remus picked up the bottle of Wolfsbane and played it in his hands. "I thought things would be different when the Wolfsbane was invented. That I'd feel different. Normal. I tried. It seems like all I did was try."

Graihagh glanced down and traced the top of a barrel with her hand, insides tense with a mixture of guilt and sympathy. "How old were you? When it happened?"

"Almost five." Remus studied the bottle of Wolfsbane. "We moved around a lot when I was young. My father said it was because of his job, but I knew that wasn't the real reason."

Graihagh had no idea it had happened so young, never thought about what it must've been like for him growing up. She had the strangest urge to touch him, put a hand to his arm. 

"But you're not a danger to anyone as long as you take the potion," said Graihagh. "You're a good person, anyone with any sense could see that."

"I'm not."

"Of course you are-"

"Will you stop saying that?"

"What, that you're a good person?"

"You know perfectly well I'm not. I'm deformed-dangerous-"

"But you're not-"

"I told you to stop!"

Graihagh threw up her hands. "I don't get it. First you're angry with me for thinking your dangerous, now you're angry with me because I'm telling you you're not-"

"You know what, you're right. I shouldn't even be here." Remus turned on his heels and reached for the door.

Graihagh didn't know why she wanted him to stay. Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe she saw a bit of herself in him. 

"Don't go. Please."

Remus paused with his hand on the door and Graihagh gestured towards the chair Snape had conjured. "Why don't you stay for a bit? I could make us some tea or something."

Remus lowered his eyes and let go of the doorknob. "Go on then."

He sat down in the wooden chair and Graihagh flicked her wand towards the tea kettle and got it boiling. When she'd poured them each a cup she sat down on the upturned crate near her work table, close enough to be friendly and far enough away that he didn't misread her intentions. 

"So how are things at the camp?" she said. This seemed like a safe question.

Remus blew on his tea to cool it. "Well, we've had to move, after that last attack. But things are quiet now. You're friends are fine," he added, anticipating Graihagh's next question.

"So does Milo...I mean, does he seem happy?"

"I don't know that I'd call him happy, but he seems to be doing better these days."

Graihagh took a long sip of her tea, weighing her next words, arranging them in the most tactful way she could.

"So....what does Milo do when..."

Remus tensed and Graihagh wondered if she'd asked the wrong thing. "Not everyone transforms," he said. "Some take Wolfsbane, when they can get it, which is not often these days."

"But some do?"

"Yes, some do. The best we've been able to do is get Milo to a secure location beforehand."

Graihagh had a horrible vision of Milo trapped and hidden and surrounded by people who wanted to tear his throat out. She took another long drink and lowered her eyes as though she could keep Remus from seeing into her mind.

Remus waved a hand in the air, as though to prove a point. "You see though? You see the problem? Everyone was right about us-"

"No, they're not."

Remus slammed his cup down on her nightstand. "For fuck's sake. You practically said so yourself, just now."

"I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did!" Remus stood up and ran a hand through his hair. "And you know what, it's fine, you're right. Everyone was right."

Graihagh sensed his rising tension and she kept her voice calm, even. "No, they're not-"

"You don't know the half of it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've dragged other people down with me, exposed them to me-" 

Graihagh wondered if he was talking about his wife. "Other people?"

Remus' face was red, the veins sticking out of his thin neck, and his voice shook. "My wife is pregnant."

Graihagh heard the words but didn't understand them. They swirled around in her mind, along with the memory Remus' flat voice when he told her his wife wasn't at the camp, and something clicked into place. "So she's not...?"

"No."

Graihagh wondered what this meant for them. "So where is she now?"

"She's with her mother."

"You mean you've left her?"

"Of course I've left her, do you really think I'd stay, make her an outcast..."

Something about his words made her think of her own mother. Was this what had been going through her mind when she left? Did she think she was protecting them from her, from the horrible things she'd done? 

Remus glanced at her from under his hair, furtive, almost guilty. "I suppose you're going to tell me I'm a horrible person for leaving her."

"No, I wasn't."

They were quiet a long time, each wrapped up in their own thoughts.

"My own mother left," said Graihagh. "When I was little. I never knew her."

Remus gave her a shrewd look, was it suspicious? "What are you saying?"

"I don't know. Just that I wish I had known her."

Remus didn't voice his question out loud, but she knew he was thinking it.

"She did something she regretted," said Graihagh. "Before I was born. And she couldn't really get over it."

"You might've been better off without her then." 

"I really don't know if I was or not, to be honest. But you're not her."

Remus didn't say anything to this, and she didn't know what he was thinking, or if he was thinking anything at all. He rubbed the back of his head and sat back down on the chair, the wood creaking under his weight like a tired groan. 

Something about the way the flickering lamplight deepened the shadows on Remus' face reminded her so vividly of Snape. They were so much alike, the two of them. The three of them, really. Maybe that's why Snape was trying so hard to push her away. He was trying to protect her from himself, from whatever it was he'd done. 

Maybe he'd done something monstrous, she didn't know, but monstrous or not there was no way she was going to make it without his help. She needed to make potions, not just for the Order, but for herself. She'd never survive otherwise, alone in that room. She had to do something, say something, to show him she trusted him.

Remus finished his tea and put his hands to his legs. "Well, I suppose I should get going." 

"Sure. I'm glad you stayed."

He gave her a tired half-smile and Graihagh followed him to the door. 

"Take care of yourself," she said, and she meant it. 

Remus looked back at her, his eyes slightly lowered, and she wondered if he was thinking of his wife. If he would ever go back to her. "I will."

Graihagh closed the door after him and sat down on her mattress, staring into the space ahead of her, her makeshift nightstand and the empty bottle of calming draught and the bollan cross.

The idea came to her so quickly, with so much certainty, she never stopped to question it. She ran out the door and took the stairs at a run, hoping Remus hadn't left yet.

He'd just stepped into the back alley when Graihagh caught up with him.

"I was wondering if I could ask a quick favour of you," she said. "How are you with advanced Charms?"

"Not bad," said Remus. There was a hint of a wry smile in his lips, and she wondered if he was remembering the Fidelius Charm. 

"Perfect," said Graihagh. She led him upstairs and explained what she wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just barely managed to get this out in time for Sev's birthday. Happy 61st you sassy old grouch XD
> 
> There's a chance it might be a few weeks until the next update-I think I need a bit of a break and I want to make sure I know where this is going :) Thanks so much for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: self-harm and psychological abuse

Snape flicked his wand and Summoned up a plate of steak-and-kidney pie to eat at his desk while he worked. He'd come to dread eating dinner in the Great Hall. He couldn't skip it every night, he _was_ the headmaster, but he supposed once or twice a week wouldn't hurt his image. He was a busy man, after all.

He shoveled food into his mouth with his left hand and reached for a piece of parchment with his right, the minutes from last week's staff meeting. He'd put Amycus and Alecto in charge and it had gone about as well as he’d thought it would, which was to say it went down like a flaming lead balloon. Flitwick marked essays, Sprout cleaned her nails, Hagrid fell asleep, and Minerva didn't even bother to show up. Alecto had burst into his office in a huff, demanding he _do_ something about it, as though he could. As though he would.

He crumpled up the parchment and tossed it at the wall, and he'd read a few poems out of the book Dumbledore had given him when there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he said as he stood up and straightened his robes.

"Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy, sir."

Snape wasn't surprised they'd shown up. He'd told them to report directly to him for any serious issues, rather than the Carrows or Filch.

He opened the door for them and they stepped inside, two characters out of a crime drama, the fresh-faced rookie and the bitter old veteran. Draco kept his hands in his pockets and his eyes flickered towards the portrait of Dumbledore so many times Snape wondered if he suspected him.

"Someone's been leaving graffiti all over the school," said Miss Parkinson. 'Resist' and 'Dumbledore's Army' and things like that."

“Did you see anyone?” said Snape. Not that it mattered. He knew exactly who was behind it.

“No sir.”

“Very well. Alert Filch and keep close watch on the corridors.”

“Yes sir.”

“Anything else?”

"We think someone's been handing out pamphlets. About how the Ministry is lying and that sort of thing. But we haven't got hold of any yet."

Snape didn't have a clue what to do about that, which was just as well, because he wasn't much inclined to.

"Very well. Is that all?"

Miss Parkinson glanced at Draco, who was staring at one of his silver instruments as though he knew what she was about to say and was pretending not to care. 

“Well, I was wondering, sir. Could you perhaps put in a good word for me? With him?”

Snape couldn't say he wasn't expecting it, she was anxious to prove herself and highly skilled, but he was startled just the same. Her seventh year would be like his, schoolwork and Quidditch and mucking about with friends one minute, bloody faces and burning houses the next.

And yet, he understood. She'd be part of something bigger than herself, surrounded by friends who respected her, who would die for her. Dissuading her would be an uphill battle.

“I’m not sure that’s advisable, Miss Parkinson. You _are_ still a student.”

“I _am_ of age, sir. I’m willing to do whatever he asks.”

Snape traced the side of his face, weighing his words, playing for time. “I will consider it. In the meantime your schoolwork and your duties as Head Girl are to take top priority, understand?”

“Yes sir.”

Snape glanced towards the half-finished dinner on his desk and to his relief Miss Parkinson took the hint and said goodnight. Draco turned to follow her, but Snape wanted a word. The boy had not been well that summer. He’d disappeared for days after torturing Rowle and Dolohov, and twice Snape caught him retching in one of the back rooms of the manor.

“I wish to speak with you, Draco.”

Draco’s back stiffened and he kept his body turned towards the door, as though he was on the verge of leaving. Snape remembered a bit of advice Slughorn had given him once, something about flattery being more effective than threats.

“I only wanted to know how you’ve been keeping.”

Draco shrugged off his question with a twitch of the shoulder and Snape could hear the words before they were even out of his mouth, _I’m fine, sir._

“I’ve been fine, sir.”

He was tight-lipped and suspicious and bore so little resemblance to the boy who used to follow him around the manor asking a thousand questions about Hogwarts that Snape wondered if they were the same person.

"Miss Parkinson seems enthusiastic," he said. Draco looked faintly annoyed but Snape didn't know why.

"She's nowhere near ready," said Draco. " You'd be making a mistake, recruiting her."

Snape was surprised he’d say this. Was he trying to protect her? But then they didn't seem that close, not anymore anyway. Perhaps he was afraid she'd upstage him, take his place among the new recruits. Either way, he wasn't wrong. No one her age was ready. Including the boy standing right in front of him.

"Just between us, I quite agree."

If he thought this concession would break the ice, he was wrong. Draco glanced towards the door, clearly anxious to get out of there, and Snape imagined what Dumbledore would do in a situation like this. Say something nonsensical and offer something to eat, probably.

"Ginger newt?" he said, gesturing towards his desk.

Draco looked at him like he’d gone mad. "Er-no thanks."

There was a long silence. Snape rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet and picked his brain for something to say.

Draco's gaze wandered around the room and rested back on his desk, widening with something-was it fear? Snape turned around to see what he was staring at there was the vial, sitting on his desk, in plain view. He'd forgotten to put it away.

"What is it?" said Snape.

"I-nothing," said Draco, but he was unnerved, Snape could tell. He knew something.

"You may go," he said, cutting him off before he could ask any questions. Draco turned and left without another word to him. As soon as he’d left he tucked the vial away in a locked drawer.

He finished his dinner and went to bed early, but he had a troubled sleep.

*

Snape thought the high-pitched whine next to his bed was the buzzing of some annoying insect. He slapped at his nightstand but it didn't stop. He slapped it again and his hand struck something solid and metallic.

"That stupid thing," he spat, pinching the coin between his fingers. He should've chucked it out months ago.

He read the tiny glowing letters on the coin face.

_Meet me at the boar's gate._

Snape threw a set of robes over his head and draped his traveling cloak over his shoulders, thinking she'd better have a damn good reason for getting him out of bed at fuck o'clock in the morning. The sun was barely up.

Snape couldn't see anyone at the boar's head gate and he was just about to turn around when Miss Corlett Disillusioned herself and appeared out of thin air. She looked as tired as he felt.

"What is it?" he snapped, in that this-better-be-something-good sort of voice he'd mastered with his students.

Miss Corlett seemed taken aback. Still thinking of the blanket, he supposed, and he felt some satisfaction in this, in defying her expectations.

"I wanted to thank you for saving my life again," she said. She reached into her pocket and Snape readied himself for a duel, but when her hand emerged it was curled around something small.

"Hold out your hand," she said.

Snape gave her a suspicious look but extracted a hand from his pocket and held it out to her.

She placed something in his palm, a hard, lumpy something, a rock perhaps. He examined it closely; it looked like petrified frog spawn. What the hell?

"It's a bollan cross," said Miss Corlett. "Or half of one. I've got the other half. It's sort of a good luck charm. Helps you if you're lost, that sort of thing."

Snape had no idea what to think, or say.

"I've put a charm on it," she went on. "It's sort of like the coin you gave me. You say my name and where you are, and it'll show up on mine." She held up the other half of the bollan cross.

"That's some very advanced magic," he said, raising an eyebrow. He wondered if it actually worked.

"Well, I had a bit of help with it."

And Snape thought he knew who'd helped her. The werewolf always did have a way with Charms.

Miss Corlett watched him, waiting, he supposed, for him to thank her, but Snape had no intention of accepting her gift. Summoning him in the dead of night, when she was in mortal danger, that he could understand. This made no sense to him at all. She must have had ulterior motives, and concern for his welfare wasn't one of them.

He held it out to her. "I don't need it."

"What, you mean the coin works both ways?"

"No, it doesn't. But there is no need for me to contact you."

"But you never know, right? I mean, if you were ever in danger or something-"

"And if I were in danger, do you really think I'd go to you? Someone who failed nearly all her exams? Someone who can barely manage a Dillusionment Charm?"

Miss Corlett's eyes flashed. "Well, I can't see that there'd be many people willing to help you, seeing as how you can barely manage a simple conversation without being completely miserable."

Snape stepped towards her. "Oh, and I suppose you think you're so noble, don't you? Taking pity on the poor Death Eater, well I'll tell you something. I dont need it. And I don't need this bloody thing." He tossed the bollan cross on the ground as carelessly as though it were a piece of rubbish.

Miss Corlett looked at him like he'd struck her, eyes bright, angry, disbelieving. "How could you do that?"

Snape said nothing.

"I don't believe you," said Miss Corlett. She turned on her heels and walked away.

Snape wanted to shout after her, tell her something so horrible she'd turn around and shout back, but he stifled the urge, and strode back to the castle.

*

Snape had skipped dinner two nights in a row and he knew he couldn’t miss a third, it would make him look weak. He stood for a moment at the entrance to his staircase, a hand on the stone gargoyle statue, until his mind was clear, blank, empty. He adjusted his robes and stood up straight and propelled himself through the corridors with long powerful strides, determined to become the thing everyone thought he was.

The Carrows were watching him, whispering to each other. Amycus cast a dark look at Flitwick and Minerva, who had the best seats at the staff table, and Snape knew it was only a matter of time before the Carrows insisted on taking their places. He filled his plate with food and tried not to think about it.

He picked at his vegetables. Minerva was cold and silent as a mountain and Flitwick was chatting half-heartedly with Professor Sprout and Snape ignored them as best he could, scanning the house tables. Everyone was eating and talking, nothing unusual going on, except that Longbottom and Weasley weren’t at the Gryffindor table. This wasn’t unheard of; sometimes students were late, or they ate quickly and got ready for evening activities.

Snape went back to his food, but he was restless, and left after only a few minutes.

“Ptolemy,” said Snape to the stone gargoyle, and the door opened to let him in.

He knew something was up the moment the stairs began to move. There were gasps and hisses and hushed whispers

The stairs moved slowly around and within seconds he was face to face with one of the most bizarre scenes he’d ever witnessed. Longbottom was staring at him like a deer caught in the headlamps while Miss Weasley shoved the sword of Gryffindor down the front of his robes. Miss Lovegood was standing beside them chewing contentedly on a biscuit, having apparently decided to help herself to his ginger newts.

“What the hell is going on here?”

Miss Weasley gasped and swore under her breath, the sword halfway down Longbottom’s front. Longbottom hid his fear behind a scowl and Miss Lovegood took a nonchalant bite of her biscuit. Snape might’ve found the whole thing amusing if it hadn’t been so deadly serious. No one could know about this.

“Give me that sword,” said Snape. Longbottom stood still, whether out of defiance or fear he didn’t know.

“ _Now.”_

Longbottom glanced at Weasley, who nodded just slightly, and pulled the sword from his robes. He handed it to Snape with shaking hands and a hard face.

Snape ran his hands up the hilt, the flat side of the blade. The fake, of course. They must’ve smashed it out of its case. Fucking _idiots._ Reckless, arrogant fools, they had no clue what they were dealing with. Snape glared at them and kept his voice as low and threatening as he could.

“So. You dare break into the Headmaster's office and steal school property?”

Longbottom opened his mouth and closed it again.

“I have never been so disgusted in all my years of teaching. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

The three of them were staring at him now, chests falling and rising rapidly. Even Miss Lovegood looked frightened. Miss Weasley closed her eyes as though willing it to be over and Miss Lovegood squeezed her hand.

He had absolute power over them. One breath, one incantation, and they’d be finished, just like that. The Dark Lord might be annoyed, perhaps, two of them were purebloods, and the third nearly so. But they’d be write-offs, collateral damage.

He'd relished this power, in the first war. Now it almost frightened him. They were like cowering children.

“Detention, all of you.”

Miss Weasley opened her eyes and he could practically hear their silent discussion, shocked, suspicious, not trusting what they'd heard. Snape's mind worked frantically for some sort of solution. He needed a punishment that looked more severe than it actually was.

“Lest you bumbling idiots think you’ve gotten off easy, you will be serving your detention with Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest. At nightfall.”

Another silent eye-discussion, and Snape knew exactly what they were thinking. That they'd gotten off easy, gotten away with something. They had no idea what they'd done.

“Listen to me,” he hissed. “If any of you ever try anything like that again, you will be expelled. Or worse.”

He could only hope that they’d listen and stop being such fucking morons, because he had no intention of following through on either threat.

“Now get back to your dormitories immediately, and if I get one word of you being out in the corridors after hours there will be serious trouble, do you understand?”

The three of them walked past without a word to him and the stairs revolved again, taking them down to the entrance. Snape turned towards his office door, but the silence was broken by an angry hiss from somewhere below, followed by an outbreak of indignant muttering. Snape went to investigate.

Longbottom, Weasley and Lovegood were grouped at the bottom of the stairs, their way blocked by Alecto Carrow, and by the look on her face Snape could tell she had heard the whole thing, and didn’t like it at all.

*

Snape had expected Amycus and Alecto to sweep into his office the next day and accuse him of being too soft, but they didn’t. Nor did they say anything the day after. Snape knew them too well to be relieved.

He was sitting in his office after dinner a few nights later, trying to keep his eyes from glazing over as he reviewed the school budget, when his mark burned.

He didn’t understand. The Dark Lord was abroad, looking for something, with the single-minded purpose of someone painting cathedral ceilings or discovering new elements. He shouldn’t have been in the country-unless he didn’t trust them, was trying to catch them off guard, sniff out any defectors. That made sense. Snape understood the Dark Lord better than he did most people. He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing.

He Summoned his traveling cloak and draped it over his shoulders, pulling out a piece of parchment and dashing off a quick note to Minerva, warning her not to try anything. Amycus had been told to stay behind, with orders to torture anyone who openly opposed him. Snape hated to do it, but he had no choice. A rebellion would be her death sentence.

Snape met Draco at the front doors and they walked together in silence. Alecto was some ways ahead of them and he waited for her to Disapparate before doing the same.

He and Draco stopped outside the front door of the manor, beside a pair of stone pots filled with cobra lilies, and stared out into the garden.

"This was unexpected," said Snape.

"I know." Draco's voice was steady, flat, but Snape knew how nervous he really was. He was tapping each of his fingers to his thumb the way he used to do when Snape called him into his office.

"He won't be in the country long."

Draco made a face. "Why would you care?"

Snape forgot sometimes that the boy didn't know. He saw the same thing everyone else did, a ruthless killer. Why should Severus Snape fear the Dark Lord?

Snape said nothing, and Draco opened one of the front doors. Everything was dim and quiet except for the ticking of a clock from somewhere, cold and distant and unchanging. He followed Draco into the drawing room.

“Severus, here,” said the Dark Lord, gesturing to a chair on his right.

Snape sat down and glanced around the table. No one said a word; none of them had expected the Dark Lord to show up.

Draco sat down beside Narcissa and she smoothed back his hair a moment before snatching her hand away and staring at the wall opposite. Lucius nodded to Draco and did likewise.

“I am pleased to see you all again,” said the Dark Lord, smiling slightly. “But I am not sure the same can be said of you. Why so quiet?”

A few people shifted in their seats.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to see your face again, my lord,” said Bellatrix, leaning forwards slightly, as though to block everyone else from view.

"And I yours, Bellatrix," said the Dark Lord. Snape noted the use of her full name. He would give her almost enough, and no more than that.

“I must say, I am impressed by all of you. Aside from the boy running free"- He paused here, eyes flickering towards Rowle and Dolohov-"things have been going smoothly in my absence, it seems."

A few people glanced around the table, smiling. Snape felt the tension break, as though the room had exhaled.

The Dark Lord turned to Snape. "Severus. Headmaster."

He'd put a bit of emphasis on the last word, but Snape couldn't detect any anger. "Have you decoded the message?"

"I nearly have it, my lord," said Snape without pausing. "A few more weeks, I think."

The Dark Lord reached up to scratch his ear and Snape used those few seconds to look at Draco. He leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the armrest, but Narcissa was sitting upright, alert, rigid. She glanced at Bellatrix for a fraction of a second and Bellatrix looked back at her, tight-lipped and unsmiling.

"I imagine your other duties are taking up a great deal of your time," said the Dark Lord as he set his hand back on the table. "But just the same, I expect nothing less than your fullest efforts. I would think the challenge a nice change from mixing your little concoctions, no?"

A ripple of quiet laughter broke out around the table and when it died down the talk turned to other things, recruitment efforts and goings-on at the Ministry. Snape put on a good show of giving a shit, nodding in all the right places and injecting the occasional "indeed my lord," but really he was thinking about what the Dark Lord had said. He'd always thought they'd been impressed by his potions, awed by his skill. He hated this weakness, this disappointment; he was like a child begging for approval, recognition. He pressed his fingernails into his forearm until it hurt.

“I must return to the continent tomorrow,” said the Dark Lord once business had been discussed. “But in the meantime I think our success calls for a little celebration.”

His words were met with many appreciative murmurs and thank-you-my-lords, but Snape remained silent, hoping no one noticed him.

"Lucius?" said the Dark Lord, smiling slightly. There were a few derisive snorts and grunts from around the table and Snape knew what they were all thinking. _Look at Lucius, no house-elf, not even a servant to bring in the food. Oh how the mighty have fallen_. Pricks.

When the food and drinks and potions had appeared everyone started filling up their plates and glasses, talking and even laughing a bit. A few people got out of their chairs and stood together as a group, and Lucius and Narcissa struck up a an earnest conversation with Draco. Snape sat in silence, trying to come up with some excuse to leave. He thought Alecto was watching him, but when he turned his head she was talking to Yaxley.

“Severus?” said the Dark Lord, when he’d finished his conversation with Bellatrix. “I would like a word with you in private.”

This was hardly surprising. He was his right hand man, the headmaster of Hogwarts. He couldn't understand why his chest was tight and his pulse slammed against his throat. This was nothing. A scene change. Time to become the man-method acting, did they call it? He smiled.

“Yes, my lord.”

Snape stood up and followed the Dark Lord up the stairs, through silent, portrait-lined halls, to a quieter, more secluded part of the manor. He thought he heard something behind him, footsteps maybe, but there was no one there.

The Dark Lord flicked his wand towards the grate and a fire appeared. “Please, sit down,” he said.

Snape sat down in a high-backed velvet chair, next to an end table with a moving photograph of Lucius and Narcissa and Draco at the 1990 Quidditch World Cup finals in Mozambique. Snape hadn't gone, he didn't like crowds, but they'd showed him the photograph on one of his visits, told him about the match.

The Dark Lord reached into the pockets of his robes and pulled out a long pipe and plug of sweet-smelling herbs. He lit it with a flick of the fingers and took a long drag, blowing out circles of blue smoke and watching them drift across the room. He handed the pipe to Severus and he breathed it in, letting the delicious smoke linger in his mouth before breathing it in and blowing it out, his body as free as though he’d slipped in a hot bath. This was luxury he hadn’t known in ages, not since that lazy autumn day he'd shared a pipe with Sprout and Minerva behind the greenhouses. He sank back in his chair and wondered how he ever could've thought ill of the Death Eaters. 

“You like it?” said the Dark Lord. “I bought it from a witch in Bavaria. The locals call it _Vergessenheit._ Oblivion."

“It’s very good, my Lord.”

“I could get more for you, if you'd like.” He took another long drag, but his body didn’t relax the way it should have. He was sitting upright, a hand curled around the arm of the chair, the veins rising above his skin.

“How do you like being headmaster?”

“I like it very much indeed, my lord.”

“Indeed,” murmured the Dark Lord. “I daresay you’ve gotten rather...comfortable.”

Snape didn't have a clue what he was hinting at, and didn't say anything.

“Of course, it is a rather more comfortable position than say, taking over the Ministry or hunting down the Order," the Dark Lord went on. "I suppose that’s why you begged me for the job.”

Snape didn't understand what he meant. They'd discussed his being headmaster, but had he begged? He didn't think so.

“Oh, but don’t you remember?” said the Dark Lord. “The school was your _home_. You couldn’t leave. You came to me almost _desperate_.”

His last words were soft, sensual, and Snape's face flushed. Was he really this disgusting, this weak?

“You’ve grown soft, Severus.”

The Dark Lord played his wand between his fingers as though they were thinking. Snape’s mind was foggy, stupid, but he kept his expression calm.

“What do you mean, my lord?”

“I mean I’ve been hearing things about you. How you disrespect your deputies. How you let the students and the staff walk all over you. I think you’ve grown quite fond of Minerva McGonagall, haven’t you?”

“No my lord,” said Snape. He breathed in, imagined he was someone else. “I merely pretended to be friendly with her to gain Dumbledore’s trust. She is an insufferable old crow.”

“And yet you let her disrespect you. I daresay she has you, what is the saying? Whipped?”

Snape heard echoes of his father in the Dark Lord’s words. _Never let a wench get control a’ you._ But he didn’t understand-wizards always prided themselves on being more enlightened than Muggles, women had been equals with men for millenia...this didn't make sense. His head was spinning.

“And what is this I hear about students breaking into your office to steal the sword of Gryffindor?”

 _How did he know?_ Snape stifled his shock and kept his voice cool. “They have been dealt with, my lord-”

“Sending them into the Forbidden Forest with the oaf Hagrid, Severus? I’d hardly call that a punishment.”

“They are purebloods, my Lord. Your orders-”

“My orders were to keep the sword safe, to keep the school safe. They did not deserve your mercy, noble blood or not.”

“It won’t happen again, my Lord.”

“I know it won’t Severus. Surely the man who killed Albus Dumbledore would not be so weak?"

The Dark Lord was watching him, waiting for a reaction. Snape imagined he was flying off the swings at the playground.

The Dark Lord curled his fingers around his wand. “I don’t want to punish you,” he said. “You are too valuable an asset. I care for you, Severus. It pains me to do this, you know that don't you?"

In some strange way Snape believed him. He bowed his head like he was seventeen.

"Yes my lord."

“But you leave me no choice.”

The Dark Lord stared straight at him, and Snape knew what he was doing, what he wanted. He was going to sit there and wait until Snape agreed to his own torture.

He slipped into the role he’d known his whole life, the yes-man, the whipping boy, and there was a perverse comfort in it, the way you got used to your parents shouting. “Yes my Lord.”

The Dark Lord said nothing. Snape tried to stifle his breathing but it only made him breathe harder. The pain wasn’t so bad when it was unexpected, when he couldn’t see it coming. But the Dark Lord made sure he knew.

He kept his eyes open but he went deep into his mind, to places the Dark Lord couldn't reach.

_Felix Felicis. Brewed correctly the drinker of this potion will be lucky in all their endeavours._

The Dark Lord raised his wand.

“ _Crucio.”_

His body was ripped open, muscles burning in waves of pain that made him sick. Somewhere inside him he heard the words.

_I can’t._

He breathed in.

_Add a tincture of thyme and stir slowly_

He clenched his teeth and dug his nails into his arm and sent the pain inward, to some place deep inside that the Dark Lord couldn’t see, a trick he'd learned a long time ago when his father would take the belt to him. He wouldn’t show weakness, he wouldn’t cry out.

_Grind up a…what was it? An Occamy eggshell? Add to the the mixture_

The Dark Lord lifted his wand. “I see my punishment is having no effect on you. It needs to hurt. You know that, don’t you?”

“Ar, m'lord.”

“Well, well. Listen to you," said the Dark Lord, and Snape was vaguely aware of having slipped into his Black Country twang. "But just the same, let’s try it again then, shall we? _Crucio_!”

_Add a sprinkle of..._

Something burned his face and he fell to the floor. He wasn't stopping but he had to, he couldn't survive this.

_The sun was shining and he was swinging with Lily at the playground, flying into the air, and Lily was singing._

_"Jinny the witch flew over the house, to fetch a stick to lather the mouse"_

The pain receded and he was limp, sweating, too wrung-out to stand up. He didn't want to be awake, he closed his eyes so he would see her again.

The Dark Lord said something but he didn't hear what it was.

He couldn’t...what if he begged him to die, maybe he would kill him, maybe it would all stop. Someone spoke again but he didn’t hear what they said.

His eyes flashed white as something struck him in the chest, again, and again and again and he heard Rowle’s voice but he didn’t understand, he couldn’t breathe.

His face hit the carpet and everything was a mess of colour and sound. He didn’t know if he was awake or asleep or maybe he was somewhere in between, in some strange hell he didn’t know. He closed his eyes again.

_He was walking through the Hogwarts grounds with Miss Corlett on a sunny summer morning and she bent down to examine a plant. When she stood up she spoke to him._

_"Get up."_

Snape winced. He couldn't catch a deep breath without a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. His muscles seized up and relaxed and the pain spread through him in waves, cresting and receding and cresting again. His face was wet with something that must've been blood. He opened his eyes. The carpet was smooth under his fingertips and the candlelight flickered over the threads. The room was quiet and he knew the Dark Lord had left.

He put his hands in front of him and pushed himself up, collapsing when his muscles seized up again. He waited until it had passed and got himself up off the floor, clutching his chest and trying not to breathe too hard.

He made his way down the hall, stopping every few minutes to rest against the wall. He could hear voices from downstairs, laughter and excited chatter. He Disillusioned himself so no one would see him.

He didn't know how he made it out of the manor and past the gates. He barely remembered spinning. When he'd stopped he collapsed into the dirt, spent, useless. He could not go back to that castle.

His muscles seized up again and he gasped, the rush of air into his chest making his eyes water. He curled up on his side to take the pressure off his chest and listened for footsteps. Everything was silent and still. His first memories were of being alone in his bedroom, rocking back and forth and singing to himself. And that was how he was going to go, apparently.

He stared into the dirt road and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash, the kind made by glass when the light hit it. He thought it might be a rock at first, or a shell, but it was far too ugly to be either of those things, and that's when he remembered the bollan cross.

He reached out and clasped it in his hand, and after another wave of pain had passed he brought it to his mouth and said her name.

The dirt road slid in and out of focus. He stared at the pebble in front of him, fighting to stay conscious, but it didn't look like anyone was coming. He closed his eyes again.

He started at the sound of her footsteps, shrank back from her touch as though she might strike him. But the hand that stroked his face was gentle.


	12. Chapter 12

  
  


"Professor? Can you hear me?"

Snape opened his eyes. Miss Corlett's face was a few inches from his and she was wiping the blood off his cheek with the sleeve of her robes. His muscles seized up again, the after-effects of a drawn-out Cruciatus curse. He clenched his jaw shut to keep from crying out in front of her, but a low grunt escaped his lips.

"It's alright," she whispered. "It'll pass soon."

The sound of her voice helped him through it, and when his muscles had slackened he lay still on the ground.

"Is anything broken?" asked Miss Corlett, checking him over.

"I...don’t think so."

"Do you think you can walk?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you're going to have to try, because I can't carry you."

She was matter-of-fact rather than pitying, and Snape appreciate this. He propped himself up on one elbow, clutching his chest with the other arm, and Miss Corlett stood behind him and pulled him up the rest of the way, draping his arm over her shoulder and grabbing him round the waist.

They walked slowly, shuffling their feet, stopping every so often when Snape's muscles would seize up. Miss Corlett was steady, encouraging, though he could tell by the way she swung her head around and started at small noises that she was frightened.

After what seemed like a long time, they arrived at the back entrance of the Hog's Head. Miss Corlett reached into the pocket of her robes with her free hand and pulled out a key.

"Shit, I can't do it left-handed," she said after she'd aimed the key at the hole and missed. "Do you think you can stand?"

He doubted it, but he couldn't bring himself to admit it. He leaned against the outside wall and hoped for the best, and just when he thought he'd fall over Miss Corlett unlocked the door and put her arm back around him, and they made their way up the stairs, pausing after each step. When they reached her room he collapsed on her bed, exhausted.

The floorboards creaked as Miss Corlett walked away, and when she came back she was holding a bucket of warm soapy water and a cloth. She dipped the cloth into the bucket, wringing it out and bringing it to his face.

"I'm afraid I don't have any dittany," she said as she wiped his blood away in soft strokes and smoothed back his hair. Her touch was like a feather to the back of the neck, pleasant and unbearable all at once. He wasn't used to this. He almost wished she'd strike him.

His muscles seized up again and he didn't see how he'd endure it, he was too worn out.

Miss Corlett hurried away and when she came back she was holding a bottle of pale yellow liquid. She knelt down beside him and lifted his head.

"Drink this," she said, bringing a capful to his lips. He drank it in one swallow. The potion was light, mellow, almost sweet, but he didn’t recognize it. He lay back and waited for whatever effects it created. After a few seconds the pain receded and his whole body went as limp as though he'd been drinking, but there were no unpleasant side effects, no dizziness or anything like that. He wondered what she'd given him.

She set the cap down and ran her hands across his body, down his arms and legs, squeezing them in places.

"What are you doing?" murmured Snape.

"Checking for broken bones."

"I already told you I don't have any."

"You might not have realised it, sometimes it doesn't hurt for awhile."

She pulled his boots off and squeezed his feet and even over his socks the sensation was too strong, too much. He yanked his foot away and to his enormous relief she got the message and stopped touching him.

He sank back into the pillow, thinking he might rest awhile before he left, and he'd just closed his eyes when to his horror she removed his traveling cloak, undid the top buttons of his robes, and put a hand to his bare chest.

Snape grabbed hold of her wrist and pushed her hand away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Miss Corlett's face flushed but she had a determined look in her eyes he didn't like. "I was checking for broken ribs. You've been clutching your chest since I found you."

Snape was on edge now; this was getting much too uncomfortable. "How many times do I have to tell you? Nothing's broken."

"Look, I know it hurts, but I can't just leave you, you could have a life-threatening injury."

"What do you care?"

Miss Corlett rolled her eyes. "Spare me the self-pity and let me check."

Snape bit back the retort on the edge of his lips and let go of her wrist. He wouldn't have cared if his injuries were life-threatening, but he had a job to finish.

Miss Corlett put her hands back to his chest.

“Turn the light off,” said Snape.

“What? But then I can’t see anything.”

Snape propped himself up on one elbow, wincing. “Turn. The light. Off.”

Miss Corlett gave him a look that was half annoyed, half puzzled. “Fine.” She reached for her wand and flicked it to wards the lamp in the corner. The room went pitch black.

Her hands were soft and cool, and he imagined he was someone else, that he couldn’t feel her, that he didn't shiver as her fingertips slid across his chest. She pressed his ribs and the pain jolted him back into his body.

"Shit!" he hissed. "Would you mind being more careful?"

"Sorry," she muttered. She pressed down again, more softly this time, and Snape squeezed jaw shut to keep from crying out.

She pressed down in a few more places and rested her hand on his stomach, which was rising and falling more rapidly than he would have liked. What was she _doing?_

"Are you finished yet?" he snapped.

Miss Corlett snatched her hand away. "Yeah." Her voice was calm, matter-of-fact, as though she’d been examining an insect specimen rather than touching his bare skin. She buttoned him back up. "Can you take a deep breath for me?"

Snape breathed in; the pain was not as bad as it had been before.

"How does it feel?"

"Better."

"Good. Can I turn the light back on?"

"I suppose."

There was a rustle of fabric and the lamp reignited, bathing the room in soft orange light.

"I don't think anything's broken," said Miss Corlett, stowing her wand in her pocket. "Now, I'm not a Healer-"

"No shit."

He didn’t know why he’d said it, but he knew he’d gone too far. Miss Corlett slammed her hands down on the mattress and got right in his face. "Look, I know you've just been tortured, but you are being an insufferable ass. Now will you shut up and let me finish?"

Her face was inches from his and he twitched his head in assent so she’d sit back up and he wouldn’t feel her breath on his face, wouldn’t feel his stomach flutter.

Miss Corlett got off the mattress and sat back on her heels. "Anyway, as I was saying, I'm not a Healer, but it looks like you've got some serious bruising. I'm worried there might be internal damage. I think you'd better stay the night, just in case."

"And what are you going to do if there is life-threatening damage? Take me to St. Mungo's?"

He expected her to get upset, flustered, but instead she looked him straight in the eye. "Yes. If I have to I will."

Snape sank back down into the pillow but he didn't protest. He was so tired and the mattress was so soft and as much as he hated to admit it, he didn't want to leave.

The Corlett woman-Graihagh, he thought her name was, it was some Gaelic absurdity anyway-tucked the woolen blanket under his shoulders and there was a creak of foosteps, the rustle of fabric. She’d sat down against a barrel a few feet away, her cloak draped over her shoulders.

"If you have any pain, any swelling, anything like that, let me know straight away," she said.

"I will."

Snape turned over on his side and sank his head into the pillow. Her scent was all over the fabric and he breathed it in a second before turning his face away, abashed. This was impersonal, an alliance borne of desperation and an old friendship. He'd helped her, now she was helping him, and that was all.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of her breathing until he fell asleep.

*

Snape opened his eyes but instead of his nightstand and the stone walls there was a room full of boxes and barrels flickering orange-black in the dim light. His chest ached but it didn't hurt to breathe and his muscles weren't stiff and sore the way they usually got after he'd been tortured.

He propped himself up on one elbow, pushing away an empty bottle and a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , and sat up. He wanted to slip away before Miss Corlett saw him. She wasn't sitting beside the barrel and he supposed she'd gone somewhere to wash. He stood up and faced the door but he couldn’t stop himself seeing her out of the corner of his eye.

She was down on her knees, a hand on her chest, the other clutching a wooden box. She was gasping for air.

Snape walked over to her. "What's going on?"

Miss Corlett didn't answer, and Snape knelt down and put a hand to her arm, ready to do what he didn't know, he didn't have a clue how to do CRP or whatever it was.

She seized his arm and buried her head in his shoulder, trembling.

He didn’t have a clue what to do. He couldn't bring himself to push her away, so he just stayed there with her, breathing slowly in the hopes that she might calm down and get the hell off him.

They stayed like that a long time, her head on his shoulder, his hand on her back. Her hair was right up against his face and he could smell it, the same oily earthy scent that had been on her pillow and it wasn't unpleasant really, but it was so strange being up against another person like that, this was too close, why wasn't he pulling away? She’d stopped shaking, she didn't need him.

The Corlett woman raised her head and Snape was afraid she'd smirk at him for staying there so long, but she'd lowered her eyes, embarrassed, he thought. Snape adjusted his robes in what he hoped was a nonchalant way and stood up.

"So," she said, standing up with him, her would-be businesslike tone telling him she wasn't ready to talk about whatever it was that just happened. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes," said Snape. "The pain has lessened."

"That's great."

They stood there facing each other, shifting on their feet. Snape was relieved she didn't want to talk about personal things, but just the same, he didn’t really know what to say. He glanced towards her workspace.

"What was that potion you gave me last night?" he asked.

Miss Corlett's shoulders slackened. She seemed as relieved as he was that the talk had turned impersonal. "It's something I invented, actually. I took an infusion of meadowsweet and added a few things to make it stronger."

"A muscle relaxant, I take it?"

"Exactly."

"There were no side-effects."

"Really?" she said, rather too quickly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "You mean to tell me I was your test subject?"

"Erm..."

"You could've poisoned me."

"Yeah, well, it turned out okay, though, didn't it?"

"Impeccable logic, Miss Corlett. It's a wonder you're still alive."

Miss Corlett smirked. "You didn't think I was such an idiot when your pain stopped though, did you?"

Snape clicked his tongue in mock disapproval and glanced back at her workspace, playing with the sleeve of his robes. "Do you need any more ingredients?"

"Could you? I'm out of nearly everything."

Snape felt a twinge of something that might've been guilt, he wasn't sure. "Why don't you write out a list of what you need? I should be able to get them to you sometime this week."

"Great, thanks.” Miss Corlett flicked her wand and Summoned a quill and a piece of parchment. She wrote for so long Snape was tempted to ask her if she thought he was made of money. He’d been keeping track of everything she owed him, if they ever survived.

When she’d finished he took the list from her and tucked it into his pocket. "I should be going."

"Sure. I'm glad you're feeling better."

Snape turned to leave and paused with his hand on the doorknob. "How are you with antidotes?"

Miss Corlett smiled slightly, but he wasn't sure what it meant. "Not bad. Owain and I make antidotes for the wizarding hospital in Mann, and I've made some for the Or-for some people."

Snape had known perfectly well what she was about to say, and he wondered if she knew she'd let it slip when she'd been injured.

"Would you be willing to assist me? I'm working on a particularly difficult one."

"Of course. I'd be happy to." She sounded as though she meant it.

"Shall I come back then? A few days from now?"

"That'd be perfect."

Snape adjusted his traveling cloak. "I suppose I'll see you then," he said, rather stiffly.

"Yeah. See you."

Snape left the room and closed the door behind him with the inexplicable feeling of having left a warm bed on a cold morning. He thought about her on his way back to the castle, and told himself he was just tired.

*

Snape had missed breakfast in the Great Hall, so he went straight up to his office and sat down at his desk. He'd increased the amount of money available to students who required assistance purchasing school materials and there was some paperwork from the Ministry to fill out and another stack of requisition forms. There were precious few letters from parents, at least. Being a murderer had its silver linings.

He worked into the afternoon, and was just getting ready to take a break when there was a crack and an elf appeared.

"Professor Carrow is harming one of the students, sir!"

"Which one?"

"Mr. Longbottom, his name is, sir!"

Snape set his quill down and rubbed his forehead. "Very well. Go back to the kitchens." The elf vanished.

He couldn't risk interfering a second time, not after what happened. He'd linger down the corridor and see what kind of shape the boy was in when he came out.

He pointed his wand to his head. " _Occulo_." He could Disillusion himself so well no one could even see him moving.

He took the corridors at a brisk pace, ducking through hidden passageways and staircases, until he reached the first floor. Alecto was shouting something from down the corridor and he flattened himself against the wall.

The door banged open and Longbottom stumbled out, wiping blood from his nose. He staggered down the corridor and up a hidden staircase, determined to keep walking, by the looks of it. Snape followed a few yards behind.

Longbottom reached the top of the stairs and fell to his knees, wheezing. His nose was still bleeding and he had the beginnings of a black eye.

Snape stepped towards him and Longbottom started at the noise and looked around. Snape went still, and the boy settled himself against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and rested his forehead against the stone, eyes closed. The smallest sound escaped his throat, a sound Snape knew he’d never make in front of other people.

Snape stayed with him, and after awhile the boy stood up, wiped his eyes and his nose with the sleeve of his robes, and walked away.

*

Snape smashed a mug against the wall before he went down to dinner, watched it break into a thousand pieces. He needed everything out, so nothing would show on his face and he could keep it the way he wanted it, cold and fixed and still as a marble statue. And a good thing he did, because Alecto and Amycus were sitting in Minerva and Flitwick's places, looking unbearably smug. The ever-dignified Minerva was sitting with her back straight, her head held high, but her face was red and her lips thin. Flitwick was whispering to Professor Sprout, who was on his other side, and Sprout was giving Amycus the side-eye and stifling a laugh with her fist.

"Headmaster," said Alecto as Snape sat down, with an almost taunting expression. Snape wanted to scrape her face off with his fork.

"Alecto," he said smoothly.

He glanced at Longbottom and Weasley, who were whispering together at the Gryffindor table, and felt the vicarious thrill of rebellion.


	13. Chapter 13

  
  


Snape's scent in lingered in Graihagh's bed for days after he'd slept there. There was something comforting about it, something she couldn't explain, the way she felt when she woke up to the sounds of tea brewing and voices talking. Sometimes when she was drifting off to sleep she'd think about his skin touching the sheets and remember the way it felt beneath her fingertips, a latticework of scars and smooth skin. She didn't understand this-it wasn't as though she found him attractive. He was a Death Eater, for Circe's sake. And he didn't seem to like her that much anyway. Or maybe he did. She was never sure of anything with him, except that he wasn't dangerous, at least not with her.

She spent a few late nights wondering who'd tortured him and why they'd done it. Maybe the Order had captured him, tortured him for information. She couldn't imagine Remus or Aberforth doing it. Cate's husband used to go on about the evils of the Cruciatus Curse, so it probably hadn't been him. But she didn't know the others very well, and they might not have been so high-minded. The so-called good side had used it plenty during the first war.

But maybe it hadn’t been them at all. Maybe the Death Eaters had tortured him, that seemed like the sort of thing they'd do. Which made it all the more baffling that Snape would join them.

She sat up in bed thinking it over, and fell asleep without having made any sense of it at all.

She was in a deep sleep when the bollan cross woke her. Remus had charmed it to light up whenever someone contacted her and she kept it tied to her wrist at night so she could feel its heat. She'd been lucky she'd seen it that first time, when she'd found him half-dead at the gates, and she'd been keeping it close ever since. She propped herself up on one elbow and took it off her wrist.

_Meet me in the alley_

She checked her watch. 4 o'clock in the morning, their usual time. She threw her robes over her pyjamas and ran a comb through her hair, wishing she had more time to get herself ready. She was mortified that he'd witnessed one of her panic attacks. He was always seeing her at her lowest, her most vulnerable, the parts of herself she tried to keep hidden.

Professor Snape was waiting just outside the door to the alley, wand at the ready, head turning in every direction. Graihagh reached for her own wand on instinct.

"Everything alright, Professor?"

Snape flicked his wand at the air. _"Muffliato,_ " he murmured. Graihagh supposed the incantation kept them from being seen, or heard. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know, I just-" Graihagh scanned the empty alleyway. "There aren't any Death Eaters out, are there? Or...you know?"

"He's abroad at the moment. But he has a habit of showing up unnanounced. It's always best to be prepared."

Graihagh shivered and looked over her shoulder, as though he might be hiding somewhere in the dark, waiting. But she didn't want Snape to know how nervous she was.

"So he just pops up out of nowhere, does he? Like that Monty Python sketch?" Not until she'd said it did she realise that he probably had no idea what she was talking about.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquistion," said Snape, in a flat-voiced imitation of Cardinal Ximenez. His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed, as though he were annoyed with himself for letting it slip.

Graihagh couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "Wait a minute, how do you about Monty Python?"

"Never mind," said Snape. He handed her a large sack of ingredients and a roll of parchment. "Take these, quickly."

"Can't you just tell me-"

"No. There's no time. You do know there are Death Eaters stationed in Hogsmeade?"

"Yeah, Aberforth told me. He's been plying them with drinks and potions to keep them useless-" She gasped and stared at Snape in horror. "Oh _shit_. You're not going to tell them are you?"

"No," said Snape, voice thick with disdain. "But you might want to do something about that mouth of yours before it gets someone killed."

"I know, I know it's just...sometimes I find it so hard to believe you're one of them."

Snape had a strange quirk. Every once in awhile he'd stare right into her eyes for a full five seconds or so without glancing away, or even blinking. His death stare, she called it. She saw flashes of his face as he lay in her bed.

"Well, I am," he said. "And speaking of _them_ , you'd better get inside."

"Right," said Graihagh, shoving the sack of ingredients into her pocket. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Would you like to come upstairs for a bit? We could talk more about this antidote."

She kept her voice casual, almost indifferent, and really, it didn't matter that much to her whether he came upstairs or not.

“I'm rather busy at the moment,” he said, not quite meeting her eye. “I’ve written the components of the poison down on that parchment. I’d like you to look it over and see if you can come up with something.”

Graihagh unrolled the parchment and looked it over. “I've never seen anything like this. What _is_ it?"

Snape looked both ways and lowered his voice. "It's a recent development, from what I know. It appears to have been developed by a rogue potioneer with ties to numerous criminal organisations."

They were dealing with some serious shit, in other words. Graihagh studied the parchment again. “The toxin is an organic compound?”

“It appears to be, yes.”

“It doesn’t resemble any plant-based toxin that I know.”

“It seems to be an entirely new creation.”

"How'd you get it?"

"Never mind how I got it. I need an antidote."

Something wasn't adding up-why would a Death Eater need an antidote? Unless the poison was being used on them.

"This wasn't-you didn't take the poison from the Order, did you?"

"I told you not to ask any questions, Miss Corlett."

Graihagh wasn't about to let Snape's anger stop her from finding out just what exactly it was she was doing.

"This isn't going to be used to _help_ the Death Eaters, is it? Because frankly I don't care if a few of them are poisoned."

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"You'd better just tell me, because if it is there's no fucki-there's no way I'm making this and I don't know why you'd even ask."

"It's not going to be used to help _all_ of us," said Snape, and there was an edge to his voice. "Now enough questions."

“So it’s going to be used to help you and maybe a few other people, is that what you’re saying?”

“What did I just tell you?” said Snape through clenched teeth.

Graihagh couldn’t believe his nerve. She lowered the parchment and put a hand to her hip the way her grandmother used to do. “Do you honestly expect me to make something that could potentially help the Death Eaters? The same people who nearly killed my friend and me, the same people who are out there killing everyone-”

Snape made a frustrated noise and raised his hands as though to seize his hair. “I told you it’s not going to help them!”

His frustration seemed beyond words. Graihagh relaxed her posture, softened her expression, hoping he’d calm down. "I'm sorry. I believe you."

Snape looked away from her as he lowered his hands, embarrassed maybe, at his loss of control. She understood then that there were things he wasn't telling her, things that he couldn't say. She would just have to trust him.

She smoothed out the parchment like nothing had happened. “I’ll get started as soon as I can.”

“Good,” said Snape, his voice quiet, controlled. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear; a breeze had blown up. “Do you have any more of that potion you gave me?”

Graihagh was so chuffed that he’d asked she had to rub her face to hide her smile. “I made a whole cauldronful. Enough for four bottles. I can get you one, if you’d like.”

“Obviously, or I wouldn't have asked."

"Don't be so polite all the time Professor, people will think you're being insincere."

She ducked through the back door before he could make a sharp retort and hurried upstairs to her room. The place was such a mess she supposed it was just as well he didn’t want to come up. She wasn't sure why she'd asked.

She was slightly out of breath when she got back to the alley. “Here,” she said, handing him the bottle.

Snape took it and tucked it into his pocket. “Keep me informed of your progress."

“I will.” She studied his face a moment. His expression was hard to read, but she wondered if he was still in pain. “How’s are you feeling, by the way?”

“Better.”

Graihagh gave him a teasing smile and reached for his robes. “Would you like me to check you over?”

Snape seized his cloak with both hands and pulled it over his chest, scowling. “That won’t be necessary.”

“I was only joking, Professor. I'm glad you're alright.”

She smiled again, inviting him into an inside joke, and she could’ve sworn his mouth softened.

“I’ll see you later then,” she said. Snape turned to leave.

“You owe me two-hundred and sixty-five galleons, by the way" he said over his shoulder.

Graihagh rolled her eyes and went inside.

*

The first thing Graihagh did with her new ingredients was make herself a cauldronful of calming draught, enough to fill four half-pint bottles. She set one of them on her nightstand, to have on hand when she slept, and lined the others up on the shelf above her workspace.

That done, she made a second potion for herself, one that helped her stay focused when the work got dull and made it easier for her to keep her workspace tidy. A dose in the morning and she could work for hours, cutting and crushing and measuring and stirring, those happy rhythms that her body craved like food.

She made everything she could think of-Blood-Replenishing Solution, another anti-paralytic, a batch of Wolfsbane for Remus in case he changed his mind, plus a few extra bottles for anyone in the camp that wanted some, in the hopes that it would make things safer for Milo.

When she was finished the day's potions and the cauldron was simmering she pulled out the parchment Snape had given her and studied the poison.

On the surface it wasn't all that different from other plant-based poisons like strychnine, but there was something different about it, some powerful magic that set it apart. The antidote would need to be as unique as the poison, part magic and part chemistry.

She scanned the ingredients on her work table for some ideas. Inter-herbal alchemy worked to reduce the toxicity of aconite; perhaps something similar would work on the poison. But without a sample it would be impossible to know anything for certain, and she wished Snape would trust her enough to lend her some. He was so frustrating sometimes. She knew perfectly well there were things he wasn’t telling her, cards he was keeping up his sleeve. She'd become part of some bigger scheme, that much was clear, but who was behind it and what it was for she didn't know.

She worked for what felt like eight or nine hours, until her head was tired for her to focus. She summoned up some food and a few whiskey old fashioneds and sank down on her mattress, fervently wishing for a television.

She was halfway through her corned beef sandwich when there were four light raps on the door. She brushed the crumbs off her robes and opened the door to let Remus inside.

He swept into the room with a nervous energy, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other pushing back his hair, looking like a middle-aged professor in a collared shirt and knitted vest, his cuffs rolled up halfway to the elbows.

"Remus," said Graihagh, closing the door behind him. "You look great."

Remus adjusted his shirt collar, which had been sticking up. "You think so? I picked these up a thrift shop in Aberdeen."

"Yeah, they suit you. How is everything?"

"I'm...better," he said, with a meaningful look at Graihagh, who understood. "Actually I was wondering if you still had that Wolfsbane?"

"I still have it. I was able to make you a few months' worth." She flicked her wand towards the work table and sent the bottles flying towards him. Remus caught them, shrunk them, and tucked them into the leather satchel he was carrying.

"So," said Graihagh, her voice relaxed from the drinks. "Have you...?"

"Not yet," said Remus. "I was actually on my way."

So that explained the nervous energy.

Remus set the satchel down and walked over to the work table, picking up a jar of moonstone and turning it in his hands. "Of course she'll probably hex me into oblivion the moment I walk through the door."

"But think of how relieved you'll be if you manage to survive."

"Knowing my wife that's that's not terribly likely." Remus set the jar down and ran a hand through his hair. "And even if she does forgive me, it's not like I can ever give her a normal life."

Graihagh had the feeling his wife had known that when she married him. Maybe she didn't want a normal life. She stepped closer to him and leaned against a barrel. "What is normal, anyway?"

Remus gave her a wry smile. "We're not talking about getting a mohawk and putting safety pins through your nose. This would effect our ability to even exist in the wizarding world. You saw how it was, at the camp."

"I thought it seemed alright."

"In some ways, yes, but..." He picked up another jar and stared down at the work table.

Graihagh didn't know what to say. Telling him to stop caring about what other people thought was too trite, too easy in a situation like this. What other people thought had consequences, big ones. And there was his child to think of.

"I suppose there's nothing for it but to try, right?" said Remus.

"Yeah. I think you'd better."

Remus set the jar down and sighed, resigning himself to the thing he'd been running from for months.

He walked over to the door and picked up the satchel, slipping his arm through the strap. Graihagh put a hand to his other arm.

"Good luck," she said.

Remus nodded. "Thank you. And I appreciate the potion."

"Oh, that reminds me." Graihagh pulled out her wand and Summoned the extra Wolfsbane and a few bottles of calming draught. "Could you bring the Wolfsbane to the camp? And give the calming draught to Milo?"

Remus nodded and tucked them into his satchel. "And that reminds me. Aberforth told me to tell you to, er, wash your dishes and send them back to the kitchen. He's running low."

Remus glanced over Graihagh's shoulder at the stack of dirty dishes beside her bed and her face grew hot. "Right, thanks. I'll do that."

"I'll see you again soon?"

"That'd be great. I'll have more potions for the Order. Some of them need another fortnight or two to mature."

"Well, good-night."

"Good-night."

Graihagh closed the door behind him and sank down on her mattress, thinking about him, and his wife, and what it meant to settle down, to eat with someone and sleep with someone and wake up with someone for years on end. Somehow she'd never been able to imagine it, not because she didn't want it, but because she didn't think it was possible, that someone could see the naked truth of who she was, without filters, without the safety of distance, without anything between them, and still want to stay.

***

The house-elves had been Snape's eyes and ears ever since the start of term, keeping watch over the students and the Carrows. There was, however, one hitch. There were now so many house-elves popping into his office, relaying the Carrows' latest threats, that his nerves were shot. One more crack of Apparition and he thought he might just seize the messenger by the arms and toss them out the window like a garden gnome. Something would have to be done.

He set his alarm for six o'clock in the morning and when he'd dressed and done a half-assed job on his hair he strode down to the kitchens, where the elves were cooking breakfast and singing, accompanied by the rhythm of pots and pans and stirring spoons.

Snape cleared his throat and the elves went silent, but it wasn't the sullen, resentful silence of the students and staff. The room was alert, expectant, like a theatre when the lights dimmed. He might've been chuffed if they hadn't been such simple creatures.

“I have new orders for you all,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder and shot an Imperturbable Charm at the door. “From now on I wish you to tell me only when a student or member of the staff is being badly injured.”

There was an outbreak of yes-sirs from all over the kitchen and Snape looked them over, Dobby with his absurd clothes and Winky in her filthy hat and another elf he recognised, with tufts of white hair growing out of his long ears.

“Kreacher?”

The elves around him parted and Kreacher stepped forward, alert, suspicious.

“You is calling me sir?” he croaked.

Snape knew he’d worked in the kitchens before, but he was surprised to see him, just the same. “Have you seen Potter?”

“Master Potter and his friends was staying in the home of my old mistress, but they has not returned. Kreacher does not know where master has gone.”

The elf sounded genuinely sorry about this, and Snape wondered if this could work to his advantage. Or not, if he was determined to keep his master's secrets.

He looked the elf over, thinking, and that’s when he saw the locket hanging from his chest. Regulus had shown it to him once, said his grandfather had given it to him.

He tapped it lightly with a finger. “Where did you get that?”

The elf glanced at his chest. “That belonged to master Regulus, and was found by master Potter. He is giving it to Kreacher. Master is very kind.”

Snape didn't know about that, but the boy was a skilled enough manipulator, where Black had resorted to threats and insults. "Where did Potter get it?"

"Master is not saying, sir."

Likely he'd been rummaging through the house and found it tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Anyway, he'd picked the right gift. Regulus had always been fond of Kreacher, and the elf loved him right back, apparently. Snape had asked him once how he'd died, but the Kreacher wouldn't say.

Snape knelt down in front of him. "I need you to tell me anything you can about what Potter and his friends were doing."

Kreacher rocked back and forth on his feet, and Snape wondered if he’d been forbidden to tell anyone. Potter was so arrogant he probably hadn't thought of it, but Miss Granger might have, she was clever enough.

"You can tell me," said Snape. "I am trying to"- his mouth thinned-"help Potter."

“Sir is a friend of Master Potter?”

Snape would sooner drown himself in a well. He grimaced, hoping Kreacher mistook his twisted facial expression for a smile. “Yes."

Kreacher mouthed silently a moment, searching for the whatever words he was allowed to say, perhaps.

"Master was looking for my mistress' locket. Kreacher told master that the sneak-thief Mundungus Fletcher stole it. Master ordered Kreacher to find Mundungus Fletcher."

"Did you?"

"Kreacher did."

"What happened then?"

"Mundungus Fletcher says he is not having it, sir."

"Did Potter go looking for it?"

"Kreacher thinks so, sir."

Snape didn't know what to make of this. “Very well,” he said. “I thank you for the information. Return to work.”

Snape went straight to his office and pulled an old book out of his nightstand, something he'd picked up at Borgin and Burkes years ago. He tapped his wand to it and the pages flutterered and turned until they reached that word, the dreaded word, the one that had been haunting him ever since he’d first read it. _Horcrux_.

_The chosen object need not be possessed of any extraordinary properties, for it is not the object itself which posseth the magicke, but the spell that concealeth the fragment of soul within..._

Snape slammed the book shut. So. The Horcrux could be anything. Such as a locket, perhaps.

He tucked the book away underneath piles of parchment and stepped in front of Dumbledore, who was fast asleep in his frame, head drooped over his chest, snoring.

“I want a word, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore gasped and raised his head. “What is it, Severus? Have you word on Harry’s location?”

“You’ve sent the boy to hunt a Horcrux.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, a bald accusation, and Dumbledore reacted just as Snape hoped he would. He sucked in his breath, eyes wide, almost pleading.

“How do you know this?”

Snape glanced over his shoulder and shot an Imperturbable Charm at the door. “I’ve suspected that he had one for awhile now. I’ve just spoken to Kreacher. He tells me the Potter and his friends have been searching for a locket.”

The silence was so profound it was as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. Even with his back turned he knew every single portrait was watching him. Snape stared the old man down with savage triumph. He’d never trusted him, never thought him good enough to know everything the boy did, but he was smart enough to find out anyway, just like he’d been smart enough to protect himself when no one else would.

Dumbledore leant forward in his frame and his eyes turned sharp, fierce. “No one can know about this, Severus.”

Snape sensed the old man's fear. He stood up straighter, taller. This was power. He’d gotten one over on him, he was the one in control now.

Perhaps Dumbledore knew it. His face fell. “Severus. Please...”

 _Severus please,_ there it was again, the old man always went straight for the jugular, didn’t he, always knew which strings to pull. Snape slammed his hand down on his desk.

“Enough!”

Dumbledore went quiet-or rather his portrait did, but that didn't matter, Dumbledore was in that portrait, he must have been, those eyes were as sharp and knowing as they’d been in real life. He didn’t know how he'd done it but he must’ve put himself there.

"I know you would not be so careless as to tell anyone, Severus."

Snape slumped down in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. His position was more dangerous than ever, the staff despised him, and the Carrows were breathing down his neck. And the boy, the one everyone placed their hopes on, was off on an impossible mission.

He didn't see much hope for either of them.

*

Hogwarts had been a refuge when the war began, the atmosphere lighter, calmer, more innocent than the world outside. There were those times when death had come to the castle, but they were few and far between. Now it was just another battleground. Everyone knew the Carrows were beating their students, encouraged by their tyrannical murderer of a Headmaster. And Snape played the part as best he could, sweeping through the castle like a bad omen, darkening corridors, stifling conversations, leaving a tense silence in his wake. Students cowered. Teachers whispered, glared, turned their backs. Minerva wouldn't look at him. They feared him. But they didn't respect him, and he couldn't force them to.

He’d arranged for each staff member to spend one evening every fortnight patrolling the corridors, knowing most of them would protect the students, but he couldn’t deny the privege to his deputies. He'd taken to walking the corridors whenever they were on patrol, hoping to scare the students away before Alecto or Amycus got them.

November blew in damp and cold and the castle was so draughty he’d taken to wearing his traveling cloak indoors. He didn’t want to leave his warm room to walk the freezing castle but Alecto was on patrol and he had a bad feeling about it somehow. She was quieter than her brother, calmer, at least on the surface. She'd been a fifth year when Snape started school and all his memories were of her bent over her books, studying. They were both fanatical and cruel, but she was the more dangerous of the two, he thought. Perhaps the students thought so too, because the corridors were silent and still, no sound except the faint hum of the Frog Choir and Flitwick's piano from the music room on the fifth floor. Snape was making his way down a narrow staircase to the floor below, thinking he might return to his office, when a low voice rang out from somewhere down the corridor. Draco, he thought.

Snape followed his voice. Draco had Longbottom backed up against the stone wall, wand pointed at his chest, and behind him was the fragment of a message. _Dumb-_

Of course it would have to be that, something close enough to amusing to set Snape on edge, as though the situation was mocking him.

Longbottom’s eyes flickered towards Snape a half-second. His face was still bruised and his eyes were wide and scared. Snape opened his mouth to say something and the corridor echoed with the clack of those stupid platform boots Alecto wore to make herself taller. Fucking hell.

“What’s all this noise?” said Alecto.

“Nothing,” muttered Draco, lowering his wand.

“Doesn’t look like nothing _,_ Draco,” said Alecto, and there was a hint of mockery in his voice, and something else, was it disappointment? “Are you going to stand there and let him get away with it?”

Draco glanced at Snape, scowling, as though this were all his fault. “No.” He stood back to let Alecto have a clear shot at the Longbottom boy.

“Why don’t you do the honours?” said Alecto.

"What do you mean?" said Draco, but Snape suspected he knew perfectly well what she meant, and was playing for time.

"I think the Cruciatus Curse ought to break the boy's spirit, yeah? Nothing too drawn-out. Just enough for him to get the message."

Draco looked from Alecto to Longbottom, his jaw clenched tight. There was no way he'd refuse her, his family was on thin ice as it was. Snape wondered if the Dark Lord had ordered her to do this to him, as a test of his loyalty. He was bloody _everywhere_.

His wand hand shook but there was nothing forced or phony about the hatred in his face. Draco hated Longbottom. He hated that he was there, hated that this was happening, hated that he'd made different choices. Snape knew because he would have hated him too.

Longbottom closed his eyes, breathing fast. The pain was so much worse when you saw it coming.

" _Crucio._ "

Longbottom breathed harder and sank to his knees but he didn’t seem to be in much pain.

Alecto clicked her tongue. “You can do better than that, Draco.”

Draco screwed up his face in concentration and opened his mouth but the incantation got caught in his throat and came out a jarbled mess.

Alecto let out an impatient huff and Snape cringed. She was one of those people who could ratchet up the tension in the room just by being there.

“Never mind. I’ll do it.” She raised her wand. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Longbottom collapsed on the floor and clutched at his head, screaming, the sound horribly high-pitched and helpless. And all Snape could do was watch. He was powerless to stop her.

She wasn’t letting up. Draco leaned against the wall, heaving and swallowing like he was trying not to throw up.

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

Snape whipped around. Miss Greengrass was walking down the corridor with a small group of Slytherins, just out of choir practice, most likely.

Alecto lowered her wand and turned around and Miss Greengrass looked from her to Snape, mouth slightly open, shocked by what she’d done. "I'm sorry. I didn’t..."

Snape ignored her. "Better let him go, Alecto," he said, in what he hoped was a bored voice. "It looks like Mr. Malfoy is about to be sick and I don’t want my boots soiled."

"All right then," said Alecto. She nodded to Draco, who shot Snape a dark look and rubbed his mouth as he hurried down the corridor, Miss Greengrass on his heels. Snape had given him a reprieve and he’d spared Longbottom and Miss Greengrass, but he’d paid a heavy price for it. Draco hadn’t liked him much before this, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to now.

Alecto jabbed the toe of her shoe into Longbottom's back. "You. Back to your dormitory, and don't let me catch you again."

Longbottom stayed on all fours with his face to the floor, dry heaving.

"Don't mind this useless lump," said Snape, with as much disdain as he could manage. "He always was a weakling. I'll see to it that he gets back to his dormitory."

Alecto smiled a bit, impressed that he was back on form, perhaps. "I'll leave you to it then.”

Snape watched her go and when she was halfway down the corridor he flashed a two-fingered salute to her retreating backside. Just a stupid childish thing but Merlin, it felt good.

He waited until she'd turned the corner and her footfalls had died away. The corridor was empty, and with curfew so close he doubted there'd be anyone else coming.

He ducked into an empty classroom. “Dobby,” he muttered. The elf popped into the room.

“You is calling me, sir?”

Snape pulled Miss Corlett’s potion out of his pocket and conjured a small cup. “You’ll find Mr. Longbottom in the corridor. Tell him to drink this. It will ease his pain. Then take him to the hospital wing. Have Madam Pomfrey give him a calming draught. After that you will take him back to his common room. You will not mention me. Understand?”

“Yes sir.”

Dobby took the cup from him and hurried out of the room. Snape stood behind the wooden door and peered around it, watching as Dobby held out a hand to Longbottom and helped him sit up. When he was upright Dobby tipped the cup into his mouth and after a minute or so the boy’s body slackened and his face relaxed. He leaned back against the wall a moment, then stood up on uncertain legs and began to walk, the elf at his side, telling him it would be alright.

Snape tore through corridors and up staircases, scarcely paying attention to where he was going. He'd slowed down some by the time he reached the seventh floor, and he was passing by Flitwick's office when he heard voices. He flattened himself against the wall and listened, not really knowing why.

"...so thankful Potter didn't come back," said Minerva in a low, anxious voice. "Can you imagine the danger he'd be in?"

"Snape's always had it in for the boy," said Flitwick. "Always looking for excuses to punish him and get him expelled." Sprout made a murmur of agreement.

"I never spoke up for him," said Minerva, and her voice was thin and strained. "No matter how horrible Severus was to him. I always backed him up. What if he'd been in danger..."

"You couldn't have known," said Sprout. "He had us all fooled. I mean even Dumbledore believed him, for goodness sake."

"And that's another thing." Minerva's voice was rising now. " _How_ could he have been so stupid? I tried so hard to warn him...but he would never _listen_..."

Snape tore himself away from the wall, face red and eyes stinging like he was eight years old, He didn't stop until he was out of the castle, deep in the grounds, where no one would hear him.

He stood in front of an alder tree and kicked at the trunk until his foot throbbed, pummeling the bark with his fists and slamming his head against it. Idiots, stupid fucking morons, they thought he was so powerful, they had no-bloody-clue.

He sat against the tree with his face in his hands and his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth. Without knowing why he slipped his hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the bollan cross, squeezing it in his hand until everything inside him had come out.

He wiped his face with the sleeve of his robes and looked out at the lights of Hogsmeade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to mention here that I totally disavow any direct parallels between the magical world and the real one. The werewolves are just werewolves and while the Death Eaters are an extremist cult they aren't equivalent to any real-world groups. Okay, stepping off my soapbox now! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, I appreciate every single one of you <3


	14. Chapter 14

Graihagh had fallen back into a routine but she lost track of day and night again. She'd wake up whenever, have a quick wash and some food, work until she couldn't see straight, then crawl into bed and skim through her books, the vampire erotica mostly, because there were only so many three-syllable words she could read at the end of a long day.

Sometimes she'd take time off to sleep or write in her journal the way her Healer had told her do once, to process her thoughts. Aberforth came up a few times to play cribbage and she tidied up her room and rearranged the boxes and barrels to give herself more space. She had a lot more energy now that she was making potions again.

She was washing some clothes in her tin bath when the bollan cross lit up. She wrung out her wet robes and rushed down the staircase in her t-shirt and jeans, wand at the ready. Something was obviously wrong, Snape wasn’t the type to just pop in and say hello.

She opened the door to find him standing in the alley looking utterly wretched, with his puffy eyes and tangled hair and skin red-raw with scratch marks.

She said the first thing that popped into her head, even though it was stupid. “Are you alright, Professor?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped.

Graihagh opened her mouth to insist he tell her, and closed it again when she saw the way his lips moved, his sharp retort already half-formed. He didn't have any serious injuries as far as she could tell. He was looking for a friendly face, that was all. And in that moment he wasn't a Death Eater, or the headmaster of Hogwarts. He was her old friend.

“Why don’t you come upstairs for a bit? I could make us some tea.”

Snape's face was impassive. “I suppose."

She led him up the stairs and into her room, pushing the pile of dirty clothes out of the way. “Sorry for the mess, I was just doing the wash,” she said, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t see the cotton knickers hanging from the line she’d strung across the ceiling.

Snape stood beside the wooden chair, one hand on its back. He seemed unsure of himself.

“Go ahead and sit down, if you like," said Graihagh, but the moment she’d said it she realised that her black wireless bra was lying right on the seat. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to sit down. She fumbled for her wand and banished it to the laundry pile.

Snape sat down and she was glad of the excuse not to look at him as she got the water boiling and poured them each a cup, the way she’d done with Remus. He was so different from Snape, on the surface, yet she sensed that underneath they were very much alike, the way they kept themselves hidden.

She sat down on the upturned crate next to her work table and draped a cloak over her shoulders. Now that she was sitting down the room was rather cold, even with the tea.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any sugar, would you?” said Snape in a too-loud voice that told her he was trying to pretend the chair incident had never happened and couldn't quite do it.

Graihagh pulled out her wand.

" _Accio sugar._ "

There was a hole in the wall not unlike a Muggle laundry chute that lead to the kitchen, and within seconds a bowl of sugar appeared there. Snape took it and poured three heaping tablespoons into his tea.

Graihagh stared at him over her cup. “Have a little tea with your sugar.”

Snape ignored her with a dignified silence and took a loud sip.

“Seriously, how can you drink that?”

“It goes better with this,” said Snape, setting his cup down and and pulling a small package out the pocket of his robes.

“Oh my God, are those Cadbury Buttons? Can I have some?”

Snape sent some chocolates flying towards her with a flick of his wand and Graihagh caught them and popped two into her mouth.

“Ugh, these are so fucking good.” She shot him an apologetic look. She'd only ever heard him curse once, and he’d been in a white-hot fury at the time. “Sorry. I haven’t had chocolate in ages.”

“I’ve spent enough time with you to know you were raised by sailors, Miss Corlett.”

Graihagh made a face at him over her tea. “Very funny. Although come to think of it, I did learn to curse from my grandmother.”

“She sounds delightful.”

“She was! I mean, she was tough, but she had to be, she raised four kids on her own.”

“What happened to your grandfather?”

“He died when my dad was little." She popped another chocolate into her mouth. “She helped raise me, you know. My grandmother. She gave me the idea for that potion. She used to make me a tea out of meadowsweet.”

“I used the potion today.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“It seemed to work.”

Graihagh wondered who'd needed it and why, but she thought it best not to ask. “That’s great.”

They were quiet awhile, drinking tea and eating chocolate, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. A spider scuttled across the floor, running for the corner. Graihagh pulled out her wand and immobilized it just before it crawled behind a box.

"Is this a false widow spider?" she said, scooping it up and holding it out to Snape.

"I believe so. That's a decent specimen."

"Isn't it though? I've never seen one this big. I think I'll hang on to it." She dropped it into a jar and sat back down.

"So," she said, reaching for her cup, "Did you grow up in the wizarding world?"

"No."

Graihagh swallowed her tea so fast she burned her tongue. So that explained how he knew about Monty Python. “Are you Muggle-born then?”

“Half-blood.”

“But you were raised as a Muggle?”

"Yes."

Graihagh sensed it was something he didn't like to talk about. She steered the conversation in a different direction.

"D'you still watch television?"

"No."

"Do you go to the cinema?"

"Occasionally."

"What kind of films do you like?"

Snape sipped his tea and shrugged "I have no particular preference."

"Have you ever seen _Dazed and Confused_?"

"No."

"What about _Clerks_?"

"Are we playing twenty questions, Miss Corlett?"

Only Snape could come up for tea and get annoyed when conversation ensued. "I was just curious. There's no need to get short with me."

She took a long sip of her orange pekoe. He didn't seem to like comedies much, which didn't surprise her. More likely he was into horror films. She thought vampires were sexy but other than that she wasn't a big fan of the genre, her nerves were frayed as it was.

"What about _Apollo 13_?"

"I did see that one."

"I saw it with my friends," said Graihagh, allowing herself only a glimpse of the memory because she hadn't heard from Cate or Milo in weeks, and didn't want to think of them just then.

"I seem to remember it was rather good," said Snape.

"Wasn't it though? That scene when they lifted off gave me chills. I felt like I was _in_ that spacecraft."

Graihagh chewed thoughtfully on a chocolate. "Do you ever think about it? How Muggles have been to the moon and sent probes to the farthest reaches of the solar system? I mean, I know they're always going to be limited in some ways, but you have to admit, they've got some amazing technology."

"I suppose there's some truth in that," said Snape. He was quiet a moment. "I sometimes thought about being an astronaut."

Graihagh smiled. She never would have expected it, and yet it was easy for her to imagine him sitting in front of a control panel in a space shuttle, fiddling with all the knobs and buttons.

"Did you really? You would've made a good one." She licked a bit of chocolate off her fingers. "I wanted to create pyrotechnic chemicals. Fireworks and that sort of thing."

"You do have a knack for blowing up cauldrons.”

"I only did that once."

"Twice."

"Alright, fine. Twice."

Snape took a long sip of tea. "You do realise that Muggle technology has a dark side."

"What, you mean like nuclear weapons and that sort of thing?"

"Precisely. Have you ever heard of the Cuban Missile Crisis?"

"I think so." She didn't have a clue.

"The Soviet Union sent submarines to Cuba armed with nuclear warheads. The Soviets thought war had broken out and decided to launch a nuclear torpedo."

"So what happened?"

"I thought you said you'd heard about it."

"Okay, I lied. So what happened?

"One of the officers refused, I forget his name-Vasily Arkhipov, I think it was. But can you imagine what would've happened if he hadn't? We were a breath away from thermonuclear war."

"Well, shit," muttered Graihagh. She sat and mulled this over awhile. "But what about the things that-you know- _they're_ doing?"

"What do you mean?"

Graihagh let out a derisive snort. "Oh you know what I mean. They're rounding up Muggle-borns right now and doing who knows what with them, they're destroying bridges, attacking villages, I mean is that any better?"

Snape traced the rim of his cup with a long finger and didn't look at her. "Some would consider it a small price to pay, to prevent the deaths of millions through nuclear destruction."

"Well, maybe so, but I don't care about a million hypothetical people, I care about my family and my friends, and they could be in danger right now for all I know."

Snape inclined his head to her. "Spoken like a true Slytherin."

"So you agree with me then?"

"I’m more concerned with individuals than ideology, if that's what you're asking."

"Is that why you keep saving my life? Because you care about me?"

Snape swirled his tea around the cup, probably to loosen the sugar that had settled at the bottom. "No, I’m just a masochist."

Graihagh smiled at him over her cup. "Oh, so you like it when I annoy you?"

Snape tensed and Graihagh cringed. She hadn't meant for it to come out the way it had, it wasn't what he thought it was. She took a long drink of tea and brushed a loose strand of hair out of her face. She was going to have to cut it again soon.

"So do I," she said, setting her cup down. "I mean, I care more about individuals too."

His eyes were such a deep brown they were almost black, and they seemed to see inside her. She looked away and there was a crinkle of plastic that she thought was Snape crumpling up the sweet wrapper and stuffing it into his pocket.

She stood up to pour herself another cup of tea and they were quiet again. The silence was tense, heavy with something-maybe it was Graihagh's teasing, or the strangeness of being alone in this room where they'd seen parts of each other they'd never intended to show. Or maybe it was that Snape finally appeared to have noticed the knickers hanging from the ceiling.

Graihagh searched around for something to say, and settled on the thing that had been troubling her for months.

"Does Rowle ever mention me?"

Severus didn't seem surprised that she'd asked. "Occasionally. He was furious that you'd escaped. But he's been given another mission that is taking up much of his time."

"So he hasn't mentioned going back to Mann to find me? Or my family?"

"Not that I'm aware."

Graihagh clutched her cup with both hands. "He found us, you know. Milo and me. He went all the way to Douglas. He took us to Malfoy manor and"-her voice became strained, and she steadied herself-"I thought that was it." She took a long sip of her tea.

"Someone Imperiused him and made him lead us to safety," she went on. "They told me to come here."

"Really?" said Severus, and Graihagh searched his voice for any sign that it had been him. He sounded confused, astonished even, but whether it was sincere or put on, she couldn't tell.

"I know, I don't understand it either,” she said. “But I think about that all the time. I can't tell you how much it meant to me, knowing someone was looking out for me like that."

She studied his face for any sign of emotion, of recognition, but his expression was as impassive as ever. She didn't know why she wanted so much for it to be him.

“Listen,” she said, “you don't have to keep calling me Miss Corlett. You can use my name if you want."

Snape didn’t say anything to this, and she had a sneaking suspicion he’d forgotten what it was.

“You don't remember my name, do you?"

Snape looked indignant. “Of course I remember your name. It’s Graihagh, isn’t it?”

Graihagh smiled, remembering that first day of Potions class when he’d mangled it. “That’s it. Nice of you not to call me Gray-Hag this time.”

Snape smirked at her over his tea. “It’s not my fault that langauge of yours makes no bloody sense.”

“It’s called Manx.”

“Do you speak it?”

“Er-not really, no.”

“I rest my case.”

Graihagh set down her cup and shot him an indignant look. “A lot of people do speak it, and it’s beautiful.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Snape, with a wry sip of tea. Graihagh met his eyes and she could’ve sworn they were-not smiling exactly, but not cold either.

"Can I ask you what your name is?” she said.

“You may not.”

“Oh come on, I won’t laugh, even if it’s Philbert or something.”

“If my name really were Philbert I’d have been highly offended by that."

“Seriously, you can tell-”

Snape clutched his cup in both hands and didn’t look at her. “I don’t-it’s not-as headmaster of Hogwarts and your former teacher I don’t think it appropriate...”

Graihagh glanced down at her cup. She wasn't surprised, really. He'd only come so far before retreating again. “Yeah. Maybe not.”

They slipped into a heavy silence. Snape finished his tea and set his cup down. "I should get back to the school."

"Of course."

He stood up and nodded towards her work table. "Have you made progress on the antidote?"

"I have some solutions prepared. But I really need to be able to test them."

Severus seemed annoyed by this, or frustrated maybe. He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced up at the ceiing. "Have them ready. We can test them tomorrow evening."

"Sounds good."

He stepped towards the door and she opened it for him. "Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight. I’m glad you came by. We should do this again.”

His expression was hard to read. “Perhaps,” he said. “But next time do me a favour and don’t invite me in on your laundry day.”

Graihagh smiled a little. Now that he'd said it out loud the whole thing was sort of funny. “I promise next time you won't be subjected to the sight of my undergarments."

Severus looked as though he wasn't sure whether to be amused or not and kept his face neutral. She could've sworn his cheeks flushed.

She closed the door behind him and when she'd cleaned the teacups she picked up some clothes and tossed them into the washtub. She hummed an old Charlatans song as she swished her robes in the water, smiling a bit.

*

Graihagh was ready when Snape came for her the next evening, three vials of potential antidotes lined up on her work table. She opened the back door for him and beckoned him inside.

"We won't be working here," he said.

"What?"

"It's too dangerous. We'll go somewhere else."

Graihagh was rather touched that he didn't want them testing poison antidotes in her living space.

"Hold on. I just need to get the solutions I've prepared."

She ran upstairs for the jars and when she got back down to the alley Snape told her to Disillusion herself.

They passed a few villagers on their way to the Three Broomsticks, and a black-robed figure with a long pointed hood walked by, nodding to Snape. Graihagh gasped and the figure paused and turned round before moving on.

"Shh!" hissed Snape.

"Sorry," muttered Graihagh, though she really didn't appreciate being told to keep quiet when there were Death Eaters everywhere. Easy enough for him to do, he was one of them, they weren't hunting _him_ down.

They turned down a side street and followed it to a path that forked off in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. Graihagh stared at steeply sloped roof and the boarded-up windows, bits of deepest black showing through the cracks. "Wait, we're going here?"

" _Muffliato._ _Repello Inimucum._ Yes."

She followed him into the falling-apart house, the door creaking shut behind them. The place was pitch-black and smelt of old wood and musty fabric and a musky, ammonia-like smell that was probably mice.

" _Lumos._ "

Blue-white light filled the foyer, exaggerating their shadows on the peeling wallpaper. A chair with one leg missing leaned feebly against the wall and a mouse scurried for cover.

The stairway and the rooms beyond were pitch black, untouched by any light. Graihagh shivered. "Isn't this place haunted?"

Snape made a dismissive noise. "That so-called ghost was nothing more than a werewolf."

Graihagh followed him into a large room on the ground floor. "A werewolf?"

Snape lit a few lamps. "One Remus Lupin. This was built for him as a place to transform so he wouldn't be a danger to the other students. Not that it kept him from roaming the grounds with his friends."

Graihagh looked around at the broken furniture and torn wallpaper and scratched paintings. He'd _wrecked_ the place, but far worse was knowing he'd let himself run free. Somebody could have been killed.

Snape glanced at her with a hint of a smirk on his face, as though he knew what she was thinking. Graihagh said nothing. She knew then that Snape didn't like him, whether because he was a werewolf or some other reason she didn't know.

She didn't have time to think on it just then. Severus had pulled two pieces of fabric out of his robes and draped them over a chair. They looked like Muggle hazmat suits, with face shields and hoods.

"You'll need to put this on," he said.

Graihagh's stomach tightened. She and Owain used full-face respirators once in awhile, when working with particularly noxious potions, but she'd never had to wear anything like this. "Just how dangerous is this poison?"

Snape slipped on a pair of gloves and held up a large vial of pale yellow liquid. "So dangerous that even the smallest amount will kill you within minutes."

Graihagh couldn’t get a deep breath and the room faded as her mind swirled with images of people coughing and choking and dying, and she _knew_ , she knew they had this poison and she wasn't doing a damn thing about it, just like she hadn't done anything about Rowle's dagger, and maybe this antidote would help them, just like her Felix Felicis helped Rowle...

"What the fuck is going on here?" she hissed. "What is this being used for?"

"I can't tell you."

Graihagh fought to keep her voice from rising. "How do I know you people aren't going to kill everyone and save yourselves?"

Snape raised an eyebrow. "I thought you trusted me, Miss Corlett."

She wanted to say yes. And it was true in a way, she did trust him, or she thought she did, but this was too much. "I-yeah, but..."

"It won't only be Death Eaters you save."

"So you're saying it'll save innocent people?"

“That conclusion follows logically from the premise, I should think.”

Graihagh turned and paced the room, arms crossed over her chest. Maybe the poison was one step too far for him, and the Death Eaters didn't know about this. If worst came to worst, she could always steal it, or find out their plans and tell the Order.

"Fine. I'll do it. But I want you to promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"Promise me you’ll try to stop them using it.”

Snape’s face was impassive. "You know of whom you're speaking, don't you?"

“Yeah,” she said, her rising inflection asking why it mattered.

"Then you'll know why I can't promise such a thing."

"Then I'm not making this." And she meant it. She turned and walked towards the door.

"Miss Corlett!"

Graihagh whipped around. "What?"

"You agreed to this."

She had agreed, that much was true, but she hadn’t promised anything.

She sighed and rubbed her face. "Look, I don't want this to be another Felix Felicis. And I'm not going to-I won't let you-"

Snape slammed his fist down on the table, making her jump. "I am not using you!"

There was nothing forced or put on about his frustration, she knew him well enough to know that. And she wanted so much to believe him.

She let out a long breath. "Alright." She walked the room a few more times, to clear her head, and set her vials down on a table at the far end of the room.

"I thought we'd try using a caustic reagent first," she said, opening the first vial. "That sometimes works on Muggle poisons."

Snape nodded. "It's worth a try, I suppose."

Graihagh set her solutions down on the table and she and Snape put on their hazmat suits and stood over them, getting everything ready. Graihagh's chest tightened as Snape twisted the cap on the vial of poison. She reached up to check her hood, make sure it was on properly.

Snape piped a small amount into a beaker, and Graihagh added an equal amount of her solution. The mixture frothed and sizzled but the colour and texture of the poison stayed the same.

Graihagh tapped her wand to the beaker. “ _Revelare contenta_.”

The toxin had remained intact. They couldn't talk under their face shields, so Graihagh shook her head and Snape conjured another beaker and added a few more drops of poison. They tried all three of her solutions, but none of them took.

"I'll keep working on it," said Graihagh, when Snape had performed a charm on the room and she'd removed her hazmat suit. She could tell he was worried, and now that she knew the danger they were in she wanted the antidote quite as much as he did.

Snape nodded. "As quickly as you can."

He Vanished the beakers did some sort of charm on the suits, to remove any traces of the poison, probably. When he’d folded up the suits he capped the vial of poison and tucked it into his robes and even though Graihagh knew he'd put a charm on it to stop it breaking she made a mental note not to go anywhere near him until he'd put it away.

"Does anyone else have access to this poison?" she asked.

"Not that I'm aware of. From what I gather it's extremely difficult to produce, prohibitively expensive and extremely illegal. You can't just walk into a shop and buy some, any more than you could buy enriched uranium."

Well. She'd sleep a bit better then, but still.

Snape draped his traveling cloak over his shoulders. Graihagh supposed he'd head back to the castle, but she wasn't in a hurry to go back to her room, gloomy as the shack was. She wanted to stay with him, get her mind off things.

"I've been meaning to ask, who took over as Potions Master?" she said as she tucked her vials back into her robes.

"Horace Slughorn."

"Oh, I know him. We were in the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers together. He threw a big party at his house every year, it was good craic."

Snape made an indistinct murmur, and she wondered if he'd been invited and hadn't gone.

"He used to rave about you," she went on. "Said you were one of the best he'd ever taught. You and your friend-Lily, was that her name?"

Snape twitched as though something had bit him and Graihagh wondered if he’d stepped on something or gotten a sudden stomach pain. "Yes," he said. He didn’t seem to want to talk about her.

He adjusted his traveling cloak, clearly in a hurry to get going, but Graihagh leaned against an old sofa and pretended she hadn't noticed.

"What made you decide to become a teacher?"

Snape paused with his hand on his cloak as though she'd jumped out behind something and surprised him.

"I enjoy watching eager young minds get crushed by reality," he said.

Graihagh gave him a wry smile, remembering the way he swept around the classroom tearing everyone to pieces. "Seriously, though."

Snape played his cloak between his fingers, his face impassive as ever. She supposed she’d have to add teaching to her ever-growing list of Things Professor Snape Refused to Talk About.

"Because I was young and didn't know what else to do. Now if you're finished asking questions, I need to get back to the castle."

Graihagh didn't want to, but she supposed they'd better. She stood up and followed him to the door. Snape paused with his hand on the doorknob.

"Miss Corlett."

"Yeah?"

"You are not to tell anyone what we're doing. Do you understand?"

His usual sarcasm-tinged indifference was gone, and his face was serious, earnest even.

"I won't."

She wasn't sure she meant it, and Snape must’ve known it. He stepped out in front of her, his face close to hers. They were the same height.

“I am serious, Miss Corlett. Tell no one, or the consequences will be more severe than you can even imagine.”

Graihagh’s chest tightened and she was dizzy, too many thoughts going through her to sort them all out. She understood why they couldn’t tell anyone, but what if she’d been tricked? What if she was just their tool, the way she’d been with Rowle? And what exactly was he threatening her with?

And yet. His face was so serious, so tired, the way he’d looked when he showed up at her door and when he’d been lying half-dead at the gates. He didn’t like some of the things they were doing, she was sure of it. Maybe he was even going behind their backs. She had the strangest urge to reach up and stroke his face.

“I won’t. I promise.”

The action was impulsive, instinctual. She raised a hand towards his face, and only at the last minute, when Snape's eyes widened just slightly, did she realise what she was doing. She brushed back a loose strand of her hair as though she'd meant to do it all along, and Snape opened the door.

She Dillusioned herself and they walked in silence until they reached the road, Graihagh's mind full of the poison, and Snape’s mind on what she didn't know, but he was every bit as preoccupied as she was.

"Stop," said Snape.

"What is it?" But Grahaigh saw what it was before she'd even finished the sentence. Three skeletally thin figures in ragged black robes were drifting over the high street of Hogsmeade, close enough that Graihagh's breath floated in front of her and the stars went black.

"Can you make a Patronus?" she whispered. Cate and Milo had shown her how to make a Patronus years ago, but she'd never gotten the hang of it.

"Death Eaters can't make Patronuses."

"So what do we do?"

"Wait until they pass."

Graihagh had never been so close to a Dementor before. She set her eyes on the moonlit mountains above the village, imagined they were just out for a walk, but she couldn't stop the voices in her head, Rowle and Milo's urgent whispers as they made their plans, her own voice, agreeing to help them. And other more distant voices, Rowle's shouts and Milo's screams, her dad telling her that her mum wasn't coming back, Cate asking why she hadn't stood up for her.

Another voice spoke in her ear, this one curt and annoyed. "Get up,"

Snape's boots were in front of her face and there were stones under her fingertips. She must've fallen.

"You're letting your emotions get control of you," said Snape, as though she'd just done something stupid. "Master yourself. The Dementors are going to be here awhile."

"Great, I was just thinking I could use a bit more anxiety right now," said Graihagh as she stood up.

Snape scanned the high street. "I think they've gone. Go, quickly."

"Right. I'll see you later, Professor."

She took the high street at a run, not worrying about her loud footfalls, and didn't stop until she was in her room.

*

Graihagh spent days wracking her brain for an antidote that might actually work. She rummaged through her ingredients as though the right one might suddenly jump out at her, paced the room, flipped through her books. In the end it was Aberforth who gave her the idea, when he came up to her room to play a game of cribbage and told her about his friendship with Hagrid, and how he'd helped him train the Thestrals.

She lost the game on purpose so he’d leave, and checked her watch. Seven o' clock at night, Snape probably wouldn't be busy. She pulled out the coin he'd given her.

"Meet me in the alley."

Snape showed up fifteen minutes later, alert and expectant.

"I need some Thestral hair," said Graihagh.

"An interesting choice for an antidote," said Snape. "But you'll need to go into the Forbidden Forest. Those are the only Thestrals in Britain."

"Want to come with me?"

"I suppose."

They Disillusioned themselves and walked in silence. The night air was cold, nearly freezing, but Graihagh was so relieved to be out of the stuffy room she wouldn't have cared if it were minus fifty. A light rain was falling and the grounds were so dark she could barely see the outline of the trees against the sky. There was something reassuring about the distant lights of the castle, but she couldn't help wondering what things were like there. Did the man beside her sweep through corridors like a nightmare, terrorising his students and bullying the staff? She didn't think so, somehow, so why had they made him headmaster? None of it made sense. She kept her eyes on the path ahead of her and tried not to think about it.

They walked into the forest, which was so still she could hear the distant footfalls of the forest creatures. Snape pulled out a pocketknife and cut the side of his palm.

"You didn't have to do that," said Graihagh, with a stab of guilt. "I would've waited for them."

"It doesn't matter," said Snape, as though he were indifferent to his own flesh. They stood and waited. The silence was broken by a faint rustling as a skeletal black horse crept out of the trees.

Graihagh reached out to stroke its face. She didn't like them much, but they were gentle.

Snape was watching her. He knew how close she'd come to seeing them when she was sixteen.

"My granny passed away about nine years ago," she explained, so he wouldn’t assume the worst. "I was there with her."

Snape ran his hand along the side of the Thestral’s face. “You were close, I take it?”

“Yeah.”

They stood side by side, stroking the Thestral's neck, their hands brushing against each other. The Thestral nickered and nudged Snape's face.

“It likes you,” said Graihagh.

Snape made a dismissive noise, but she suspected he was rather chuffed. “I think it’s more interested in my red blood cells."

“I think you secretly like them. In fact I think you secretly like all animals.”

“Only when they're dead and preserved in a jar.”

“You feed stray cats, don’t you.”

"No," said Snape, so quickly it was as good as a yes. Graihagh smirked and stroked the Thestral, her hand close to his. His palm was still bleeding.

"Let me put some dittany on that," she said. She took off her gloves and pulled the bottle out of her robes before he could say no.

"Hold out your hand."

Snape held out his hand to her, and she gripped his palm between her thumb and forefinger to keep it steady while she applied the dittany. His cut healed in a puff of smoke, leaving his palm dry, pale, callused, but intact. She squeezed his hand and stroked his skin with her thumb.

Snape snatched his hand away as though she'd burned him. He stuck it in his pocket, and Graihagh tucked the dittany in her robes as though nothing had happened. She didn't know why she'd done it, it wasn't what he thought it was. She'd only wanted to comfort him a little.

"We're going to have to do immoblise it, if you want its hair," said Snape, his voice curt, formal, this-is-strictly-business-don't-get-any-ideas. Graihagh was a bit stung by this, and she didn't know why.

She fumbled for her wand and tapped it to the Thestral. “ _Petrificus_ _Totalus_.”

The Thestral froze in place. “Sorry, you,” she whispered. “It’s just for a moment.” She walked behind the Thestral and pulled a few hairs out its tail. “I’ve got them,” she said, tucking them into her pocket.

“ _Finite,_ ” muttered Snape.

The Thestral bucked and whinnied in delayed protest, but consented to let Graihagh stroke its nose, soft as velvet under her fingertips.

Snape checked his watch. “We need to get going. The Dementors will start their patrol soon."

“Right,” said Graihagh. She was freezing her arse off anyway.

They walked in silence back to Hogsmeade, through a fine mist of cold rain. Graihagh was wearing her cloak and gloves but even still she crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her hands in her armpits to warm them.

“Cold?” said Snape.

“Bit.”

“We’re almost at the gates.”

Graihagh stopped when they'd reached them. “Thanks for coming with me.”

Snape nodded very slightly, keeping his distance.

"Goodnight," said Graihagh.

“Goodnight.”

She took the path to Hogsmeade at a run, to warm up her legs a bit. She'd nearly reached the village when the sky turned black, so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She knew what it was.

She stopped and hugged her arms to her chest, waiting for them to pass, the voices in her head growing louder. She _hated_ the fucking things, why did they have to show up now, just when she was starting to get a handle on her anxiety?

She thought the flash out the side of her eyes was lightening at first, until the doe leapt in front of her, silver-white and weightless. She was one of the most beautiful things Graihagh had ever seen.

The doe stopped and watched, and Graihagh knew she was waiting for her. She followed her through the streets of Hogsmeade, and she was a talisman against her own fear.

They reached the back entrance of the Hog’s Head and and the doe stopped and stood beside her. “Thanks,” said Graihagh. She reached out to stroke its head, but her hand went right through her. She was pure light, a bit warm to the touch.

The doe streaked off through the alley and vanished. Graihagh held on to the banister as she made her way up the stars, shaky and spent and immensely grateful to whichever villager had conjured her.

When she got to her room she took off her cloak and gloves and poured herself a capful of calming draught. She sat in bed a long time, wondering what Snape was doing at the school, and how he could've joined the Death Eaters, and just what it was they were doing. She wished he weren't with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vasili Arkhipov did indeed save the world in 1962, and from what I've read he was a wonderful human being.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a brief depiction of birth towards the end of the first half of this chapter. It won't be at all detailed, but if you'd prefer to skip it I totally understand. Just stop at the part where Remus comes to get Graihagh when she's sitting on the riverbank at the camp, and skip to the scene break where Snape's POV starts. I'll have a summary at the end (you won't miss too much.)

November was as wet as any Graihagh could remember, rain drumming against the sloped roof, leaking through the cracks, dripping into tin cans like a dull drum-machine beat to the long days spent bent over a cauldron, mixing up potions and trying out antidotes. As the days passed by and November slogged into December she spent more and more time worrying over her family and Milo and Cate. Milo was still at the camp, as far as she knew, but she hadn't heard from Cate since August, and her dad and Emma hadn't written at all. Remus had been bound by the enchantments that protected the hidden room and hadn’t told them where she was, and Aberforth thought it best not to send them any owls, in case they were intercepted.

She threw herself into her work, but tired as she was when she went to bed she’d started waking up in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep without a draught. She’d wake up groggy after, but it was better than nothing.

She was in the middle of mixing up an antidote when Remus knocked on the door.

“Be right there,” she called, wiping her sweaty bangs out of her face and lowering the heat on the cauldron.

Remus was dressed in leaf green robes that fit him well, a bit faded but clean and without wrinkles or stains. His hair was shorter, carefully combed and parted down the side, still falling into his face but not as though he wanted to hide himself. He bore every sign of being cared for.

“Is this a bad time?” he said, with a glance at Graihagh’s sweaty hair and the murmuring cauldron in the background.

“No,” Graihagh lied. She’d never dealt well with interruptions, her brain didn't seem want to switch gears. “I was just finishing up. The potion just needs to stew for ten minutes and then I can set it aside.”

She checked her watch and poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on her makeshift table, a wooden box she’d turned on its side. “How is everything?

“Good. It’s been good. She, er, banished me to the sofa for a week or two, but she’s started using my actual name again, so I’d say that’s a good sign.

Graihagh smiled and leaned against a barrel. “How far along is she now?”

“About six months.”

“Wow. Won’t be long, then.”

“No, and I think we’re in for it too, that child never stops kicking.” There was something forced in his voice, in his upturned lips, but it wasn’t, she knew, from indifference. Terror, more like.

“You'll be wonderful."

Remus scrabbled at the sleeves of his robes. He and Snape had the same quirk, keeping their hands half hidden up their sleeves.

“Well, we’ll certainly try.”

Graihagh checked her watch; five minutes had passed. She decided to change the subject. “So what’s new? I’ve got more potions if you need them.”

Remus started as though coming out of a trance. “Yes, excellent. Thank you.”

Graihagh lifted up a crate she’d packed with potion bottles and handed it to Remus, and when he’d set it down she gestured towards the chair. “Would you like to stay for a bit? I could get some tea on.”

“Actually I had another favour to ask of you, if you’re willing.”

Graihagh was so keen to get out of that room she would’ve scrubbed his floor with her face. “Sure, what is it?"

"A woman in the camp has gone into labour and we’d like you to assist.”

Graihagh nearly dropped her glass. “What?”

“Oh, don’t worry, we have a midwife to take care of the actual birth,” said Remus quickly, realising what he’d said. “We just need someone to administer potions. It's difficult for us to brew our own, given how expensive some of the ingredients are."

“Oh,” said Graihagh, as though she’d known what he meant all along. “Yeah. Of course. Erm, just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”

Remus reached into his pocket and smoothed out a piece of parchment. “She’s listed them all here.”

Graihagh scanned the list and pulled five bottles off the shelf. She knew her creations intimately, but a few of them were uncommon, potions she'd never seen used. She hoped she'd know what to do. This wasn't something she could screw up. She packed the bottles into a valise and followed Remus out the door.

“We’ll use side-along Apparition again,” said Remus.

Graihagh followed him downstairs and into the alley. The sun had sunk below the mountains but it was still light out, so she supposed it was around four in the afternoon. Remus held out his arm and she took it.

The camp looked much the same as it had when she’d last seen it, except that the trees were bare, and the river ran higher from all the rain they'd had. There were fewer campfires and fewer people outside; most of them seemed to be sheltering inside their tents, which were comfortable and warm, if they were anything like other wizarding tents, and she didn’t see why they wouldn’t be.

"So is it safe?" she asked as they walked through the camp, her gently rising inflection cautious, tactful. "For her to give birth?"

"Well, as she's not a werewolf herself, it should be, so long as she has access to Wolfsbane."

"So it's her partner who's...?"

"She is. The two of them met at Hogwarts and they've been inseparable ever since."

They stopped in front of the same tent they'd been in before, with its raised wooden platform and comfortable camp beds and shelves full of bandages and gauze and other medical supplies. Graihagh heard the woman from all the way outside the entrance. She was crying out in pain, a primal, unselfconscious sound that made the space feel too personal, too intimate, like walking into someone’s bedroom.

Remus nodded. “Go ahead, they’re expecting you.”

Graihagh pulled open the tent flap and stuck just her head and one foot inside the room.

“Are you the potioneer?” said a black-haired woman, partway through taking supplies off one of the shelves. She looked to be about fifty and bustled about the room with a confidence that commanded respect.

“Yes,” said Graihagh, stepping into the room. “I’ve got everything right here.”

“Set them down on the table, then.”

Graihagh opened the valise and set the potions down on a table that had been set up beside the camp bed the woman was kneeling on. Another young woman was standing beside her, rubbing her back and murmuring words of encouragement, praise. Her partner, she was sure of it. Graihagh stole a glance at her, at the long jagged scar that ran down her face. She was the same woman she'd helped months earlier, when she'd been bleeding.

The woman on the bed cried out and Graihagh cringed.

“I’ve got something for the pain,” she said, eyeing the woman’s partner, who was the least intimidating person in the room.

“What kind of pain reliever is it?” said the midwife, rather sharply.

“It's a new kind of potion," said Graihagh. "It's not opiate-based and it should have only mild side effects." She held up the bottle, feeling confident for the first time since she'd arrived at the camp. She and Owain had contributed to its development, after their successful experiments with rattlesnake venom.

The midwife nodded and Graihagh measured out 10 mL and gave it to the woman, cradling the back of her head as she drank. Within minutes the woman’s face smoothed over and she laid in the bed with her eyes closed as her partner wiped her face with a cool cloth and the midwife examined her.

“It’ll be awhile yet, if you want to wait outside,” she said to Graihagh. Get out, in other words.

“Sure," said Graihagh. She lowered her voice. “There shouldn’t be any side effects to that potion, but let me know if she reports any dizziness or her blood pressure drops too low.”

The midwife nodded and turned back towards the woman, Graihagh's cue to leave. She stepped outside, where Remus was waiting, staring into the trees.

He turned to face her, concern in his face. “How is she?”

“She’s doing great. The midwife said it’ll be awhile.”

“Good, good," said Remus, almost absently. He stared into space a few seconds, then came back to himself. “Fynn and Milo are here, if you’d like to see them.”

Graihagh looked round as though they might be standing right beside her. “Really? Where?”

Remus pointed to a tent at the edge of the camp, near the river. “See that beige tent over there? That’s theirs.”

Graihagh didn’t even stop to thank him, just took off running, not stopping til she was just outside the tent. Only when she’d reached the entrance did it occur to her that she had no clue how to announce her presence, there wasn’t a doorbell or any wood to knock. She slapped her palm on the canvas a few times.

The tent rustled and Fynn unzipped the flap and stuck their head out the entrance.

“Graihagh?”

Her face fell and she didn’t even try to force a smile back on.

“I came with Remus. Is Milo here?”

“No, he’s at the communal kitchens. We’ve been preserving food for the winter.”

“Oh. Well, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Half an hour, maybe. D’you want to come in?”

She glanced around the camp. Remus had disappeared from view, and she didn’t know anyone else there.

“Sure.”

She followed Fynn into the tent, which was about the size of a tiny flat, with a kitchen and a sitting room and two flaps in the wall that must've led to the bedrooms. The place looked safe and comfortable but she knew it was only an illusion, knew the only thing between Milo and the war was a thin piece of canvas and a few enchantments. He would've left no matter what she'd done, but still, Fynn could've talked some sense into him, persuaded him to go back to Douglas and go into hiding. They didn't have to bring him here.

Fynn sat down on a threadbare floral-print sofa, the kind old people had in their houses, and Graihagh took a chair opposite, legs crossed, gazing at the front door as though hoping Milo would walk in any second.

Fynn leaned forward on the sofa, tapping their fingers together.

"So-"

"How's Milo?"

She cut to the chase, her curt voice making it clear that she was there for him, and nothing else.

"He's good," said Fynn. "Really," they added, when Graihagh shot them a skeptical look. "I mean, it was a bit of a shock at first, but I think it’s been good for him."

Graihagh raised her eyebrows. "Living here, you mean?"

Fynn's eyes flickered downwards. She hadn't meant to imply that the werewolf camp wasn't good enough for Milo-but then again, maybe she had. Either way, Fynn took it as such.

"I mean having a mission," they said, with a hint of defensiveness. "Something to fight for, you know?"

"So what exactly have you been doing?"

"Fighting off the Snatchers, mostly."

"Snatchers?"

"They go after Muggle-borns and turn them into the Ministry for money."

Vague images formed in her mind, faceless people in cloaks and hoods rounding up Muggle-borns, rounding up Cate, and taking them...where? What _were_ they doing with them? Throwing them into Azkaban, or something worse?

"So you've rescued some?"

"Yeah. Sometimes the Snatchers get away with them, but I reckon we've saved about twenty, so far."

She should've respected them for this, and maybe some small grudging part of her did. But mostly she was annoyed. Fynn had no business being so bloody _noble_ all the time.

She supposed Fynn expected her to thaw at this, to praise them, but she didn't, just stared at the door while Fynn drummed their fingers on their thighs and picked at their robes.

"Have you gone after Rowle?" she asked.

"No, not yet. We haven't had the chance."

Another silence.

"Look," said Fynn, with that earnest voice she'd come to know, the voice of someone always on the defensive. "I would never do anything that I thought would hurt him, okay?"

"What does he do when you transform?"

Fynn’s expression darkened. She was hitting below the belt now and she knew and she didn't care.

"I've been taking Wolfsbane the last two months," they said, and their was an edge to their voice. "We pack up when the moon's full, put some protective enchantments round our tent. He's completely safe."

So they were taking the extra Wolfsbane she had made, that she'd given to Remus. She couldn't even hate them for transforming.

"Why didn't you tell us before all this? How long were you going to keep it a secret?"

"Look, I wanted to tell you-"

Graihagh made a skeptical noise.

"I did! I just...I was waiting for the right time."

"When? When you were backed into a corner?"

Fynn's face was red now, forehead wrinkled anger, just what she'd been hoping for. "What would you know about it? You don't know what I'm thinking, you barely even know me-"

The canvas rustled and at almost the same moment they turned towards the entrance as Milo stepped through.

"Graihagh?"

She leapt off the chair and ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his hair. He smelt like their old flat.

Milo clapped her on the back. "How did you-"

He broke off, and Graihagh pulled away to find him staring at Fynn, holding some silent conversation with their eyes. Fynn strode to the bedroom and closed the flap behind them.

"What's going on?" asked Milo. He wasn't smiling.

"Nothing," said Graihagh, face burning, grudgingly aware of what a twat she'd just been.

"Were you rowing?"

"We were just..." She picked her brain for an explanation that didn't put her in a harsh light. "I've been really worried about you."

"Because of”-he mouthed the word-”Fynn?"

Graihagh hadn't been expecting him to come to their defense so quickly. "No, because of all the things you've been doing. Fynn told me you were fighting off Snatchers..."

"Yeah, we have. And it's been fantastic, honestly. I feel like I'm actually _doing_ something."

He sounded as though he meant it and maybe it was, maybe he did like it. But it wasn’t worth the risk to his life.

"You were doing plenty before all this,” said Graihagh.

"You know what I mean."

Graihagh crossed her arms and leaned against the back of the sofa. "No, I don't actually."

Milo stood beside an end table, picking up a figurine he'd made and playing it in his hand. "I didn't do shit to fight Rowle while we were at school. Don't think I don't remember."

"None of that was your fault."

"It was just as much my fault as it was yours."

"It wasn't though-"

Milo set the figurine down. "Yes it was."

He was so firm, so insistent, it as almost as though he _wanted_ it to be. Graihagh knew it was pointless to argue. She said nothing.

“I’m not saying this is easy or anything, but I don’t need you worrying over me, so just stop it.”

Graihagh stared at the wall, straining her face to keep it flat, blank, expressionless. Making him think she didn’t mind, that she understood.

“You know Fynn’s been taking Wolfsbane?” said Milo, a note of accusation in his voice.

“Yeah, I know. I’ve been making it for them.”

Whether because he sensed her defensiveness or because he appreciated the effort, he didn’t say anything to this.

Graihagh’s eyes flickered towards Fynn's room. Milo was different about them, protective almost, in a way he hadn't been before. “So are the two of you...?”

“Keep your voice down” whispered Milo. “And we aren't. At least I don't think so."

Graihagh softened at the uncertainty in his voice. “You don’t think so?”

"I don't know, I just-" Milo glanced towards the bedroom. “I think we'd better discuss this outside.”

Graihagh followed Milo to the riverbank and they sat down, knees drawn up to their chests, draped in heavy cloaks. They looked like two black boulders.

Milo stared at the rushing river. “I don't want to lose what I have with them."

“What do you mean?”

“Oh come on, you must realise how awkward it'd be if I came on to them and they didn’t like it. Then what? We avoid each other all the time?”

“You still don’t think they feel the same way?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think maybe they do but then, I don’t know, they pull back.”

The sun had set and it was the blue hour, as her granny used to call that time in winter just before it got dark. Graihagh looked up at the bare trees and thought of Remus. “Maybe Fynn's afraid of hurting you.”

“Maybe,” said Milo. "But I'm the one with the problem, really."

Graihagh turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know."

His words took awhile to register. All those years she'd blamed herself for the attack; she had no idea that Milo was carrying the same guilt. She could've told him it wasn't his fault, but she knew he’d insist that it was, and maybe he was right, maybe they were both to blame, she didn't know.

"Have you told Fynn about it?" But she knew the answer before she'd even asked.

"No."

Their eyes met in a second's understanding before Graihagh glanced away.

"Did Remus bring you here?" said Milo, and she was relieved he'd changed the subject.

"Yeah. Someone's having a baby and they wanted me to administer potions."

"Oh yeah, that'll be Iris. How is she?"

"Good, as far as I know. They said she'd be awhile."

She tightened her cloak and stuck her hands up her sleeves. Now that the sun had set it was getting near freezing. "So do you know a lot of people here?"

"Nearly everyone. They've been really good about me staying with them."

"So you're happy here?"

"Yeah. I am."

His voice was even, calm, none of the heat that meant he really wasn't and didn't want to admit it. Graihagh didn't know what she felt.

"You didn't say anything really horrible to Fynn, did you?" said Milo after awhile.

"Well, I don't _think_ it was anything horrible..."

Milo didn't believe a word of this, he knew her too well. "What'd you say?"

"I just asked them when they were going to tell us about, you know. Their condition."

Milo looked indignant. "What the hell Graihagh? You can't just ask them that, you know how hard it's been for them. And if they really wanted to hide it from me they wouldn’t have brought me here.”

"I know, I know. I'm sorry."

They sat and watched the river awhile, until muffled footsteps sounded behind them.

Graihagh turned round to find Remus hurrying towards them, red-faced and winded.

"They need you now," he said.

"Oh. Right," said Graihagh, standing up. Milo stood up with her.

"Listen," she said, lowering her voice so Remus wouldn't hear her. "Tell Fynn I'm sorry for what I said, okay?"

"Yeah," said Milo. "But perhaps in future you could consider not being a cunt to my friends."

Graihagh punched his arm and hurried through the grass after Remus.

She was so nervous her muscles seized up and she had trouble walking. She'd administered potions during emergencies sometimes, back in Douglas, but she'd never assisted with a birth.

"You'll be fine," said Remus, as though he sensed what she was thinking.

Graihagh nodded vaguely and ducked into the tent, where she let out a gasp so audible the midwife turned round and glared at her. "I need you to get these potions ready," she said, gesturing to three of the bottles on the table.

Graihagh strode over and prepared the doses, trying her best to ignore what was going on, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop looking.

"I'm going to need another pair of hands here," said the midwife after a few minutes.

Graihagh gaped at her and turned round to see if there was anyone else in the tent, but no luck. She pointed to herself and mouthed the word. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Wash your hands, put on these gloves, keep your mouth shut, and do what I tell you, understand?"

The midwife turned back to Iris. “That’s it love, you’re doing beautifully.”

Graihagh didn't dare argue. She washed her hands at a basin along the wall and slipped on the gloves the midwife had given her, hanging back rather awkwardly.

"For Circe's sake, don't act so squeamish," the midwife whispered. "It's entirely natural."

"Of course," said Graihagh. She was lying through her teeth, it looked like something out of _Alien_.

Her adrenaline kicked in, made it easier for her to focus, but still, she didn't have a clue what was going on.

"Oh my God, is it supposed to look like that?" she murmured, completely forgetting to keep her mouth closed. She thought the midwife would murder her.

She did everything the midwife asked, and before she knew what had happened the tent was filled with high-pitched cries, and Iris and her partner were holding the baby between them, not half-laughing, half-crying, the way people did on television-they looked exhausted, really-but there was something there, something too deep and too strong for words. Graihagh administered the potions and watched them awhile, making sure the potions did what they were supposed to and that there weren't any side effects, and after half an hour or so she congratulated the new parents and ducked out of the tent.

Remus was sitting beside a campfire not far off. He stood up when he saw her.

"How'd it go?"

"It was brilliant," said Graihagh, mercifully forgetting the more graphic details. Whatever her misgivings, she'd seen defiance, hope, a fuck-you to the war, and she knew she'd take it with her and keep it a long time.

Remus looked relieved. "The new parents are doing well, then?"

"A bit tired, but I'd say they're doing well."

"And the midwife didn't make you scrub the tent down with a toothbrush?"

"I ducked out before she saw me or she probably would have."

Remus smiled in understanding. "Believe it or not, she's a lovely person. We're fortunate to have someone trained in midwifery." He checked his watch. "We should get going, I don't want to be out too late."

They Apparated back to the alley and Remus said goodnight to her, spinning into the air as the words left his mouth.

Graihagh went upstairs to her room and flopped down on her bed, floating in the afterglow of the night's events, thoughts drifting to Snape, as they so often did lately. She wondered what he was doing for Christmas, if he had any family to go to. She couldn't explain it if she tried, but she knew somehow he'd be alone and miserable. She wondered if she could make it any easier on him. Aberforth had been selling her potions down at the bar, and she had a bit of money saved up, enough to buy him something. She smiled a little at the thought. She must've been drunk on serotonin, if she was seriously considering giving that surly ass a Christmas gift.

***

The castle was as gloomy as the winter rain. The first Quidditch match of the season had gone off with grim efficiency, Gryffindor scraping a win and setting off to the changing rooms to a few scattered cheers, Longbottom and his friends mostly. The corridors hissed with whispers and nervous chatter, and the Great Hall was quiet even at mealtimes. No one smiled much.

Snape wondered if the staff would even bother putting up Christmas decorations that year. Wreaths and mistletoe and fairy lights would be strange, jarring, like yellow at a funeral. But decorate the castle they did, and not only that, they made it more beautiful than he'd ever seen it, draping the banisters with garlands, lining the corridors with enchanted ice sculptures, charming poinsetties to bloom everywhere, setting loose hundreds of soft white fairies among the trees and wreaths that filled the entrance hall. There was a striking defiance in that beauty, the way his mother's red hellebore flowers would mock the shit-smelling privies and soot-grey brick of Spinner’s End.

The whole thing was a giant middle finger to the Carrows, and they took it as such, scowling when they’d scan the Great Hall with its twelve Christmas trees or when wreaths of mistletoe would appear above their heads. Snape draped garland around the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance to his office and bewitched the armour to sing the most obnoxious carols he could think of, most of which contained thinly-veiled insults to Amycus and Alecto, with various suggestions as to where they could stick their boughs of holly. As much as he hated Christmas he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to be a thorn in their side. He understood something of how the students felt when they graffitied the walls and made up songs about the Carrows and threw up in their classes. Like they were free. Like there was something inside them that no one could stamp out.

But the Carrows were doing their damndest. Every day there were reports of students being slapped and spit on and tortured. Snape had narrowly saved the Weasley girl's skin after discovering that she'd organised some sort of meeting at the Three Broomsticks, giving her a dressing-down and banning her from Hogsmeade before the Carrows caught wind of it. Whenever a student was injured Snape would give a bit of Miss Corlett’s potion to whichever elf popped into his office to deliver the news, instructing them to wait until they were away from the Carrows before they gave it to them. He’d already had to ask her for another bottle.

An imperious-looking stack of paperwork sat on desk but he could hardly sit down, he was so on edge. Any second there’d be a crack and-

“The Carrows has taken a student to an empty classroom sir! They is chaining him up!”

_What the fuck?_

“Which classroom?”

“Room 630, sir.”

“Keep an eye on them,” said Snape. “If the student appears to be in serious danger alert Professor McGonagall.” The elf nodded and vanished, and Snape rushed out the room, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. The Dark Lord was displeased with Minerva as it was. She didn’t have much breathing room.

Snape took the corridors at a run, listening for the Carrows, but there was no sign of them anywhere, and the door to the classroom was locked. So they'd actually done it. They chained up a student, a _child_ , and left them there to suffer in an empty classroom. He might as well have been working with Bellatrix. This was insane.

They hadn't bothered with any kind of advanced charms at least. Snape had the door opened in seconds. He knew what was coming but the sight of it made him suck in his breath.

The boy was no more than eleven or twelve. He sitting in a dark corner of the room, wrapped in heavy chains, keening softly to himself the way Snape used to do when his father had got through with him.

Snape would murder the Carrows. He'd poison their drinks and watch them die, but first he'd chain them up and Crucio them within an inch of their sanity, make them feel some of what they’d been inflicting on his students. What they'd been inflicting on him. They were humiliating him, going behind his back like this.

He took a deep breath to calm himself and knelt down beside the boy, working the padlock open. The boy struggled against the chains and stared at Snape's hands, the way people used to stare at the tip of his wand when he'd curse them. Tunnel vision. He was in shock.

“No...no...”

“It’s alright,” Snape murmured. “I’m going to help you.”

“No...”

Snape worked the lock open and the boy, far from being relieved at his freedom of movement, thrashed about and shouted himself hoarse

The door creaked open. “What is going on here?”

Snape stiffened. Not her, not now.

Minerva gasped and ran to them, her voice husky, dry. “My God, Severus. What have you done?”

And what could he say? That he was setting the boy free? She'd never believe it anyway.

“Get out of the way Severus. Get out of the way now or I swear I will use this.” She drew her wand and pointed it straight to his chest, the tip just touching his robes, singeing them like a lit cigarette.

Snape stood up, his face impassive, betraying neither anger nor fear. “You wouldn't get away with it, Minerva.”

“I don’t care. Now out of my way.”

Severus stood aside to let her pass, watching as she knelt down beside the boy and untwisted his chains.

“There, now, it’s alright,” she said in the gentlest voice he’d ever heard her use. She put her arm around the boy and he buried his head in her arm. Minerva allowed him a few seconds comfort and ushered him out of the room. “Come with me, we’ll see Madam Pomfrey. Everything will be alright.”

Snape waited until their footsteps had faded down the corridor and locked the door, flicking his wand at the room to stifle the noise. He kicked over desks, smashed glass jars, ripped open books. Spent, he slumped against a wall and sat in the dark.

*

Snape did his best not to think of the Corlett woman. But he couldn’t stop himself dreaming about her, or hearing her voice as he fell asleep. Remembering the way she'd stroked his face when she'd found him at the gates, the way she'd run her thumb along his palm.

He was being stupid about her. There was still no reason to think she wasn’t spying on him, and even if she wasn’t, she’d never want anything to do with him if she knew who he really was. He felt different around her; normal, human almost, but why should he? He was a machine, going through the motions until he'd done his job.

He couldn't afford to think of her that day. Entertaining was Narcissa's art and the Malfoy's annual Christmas parties were her masterpiece, extravagent affairs that went on for days in a haze of colours and potions, the rooms hot and thick with people. They were about as fun with as having a wisdom tooth extracted, but every few years Snape humoured her and kept a stiff upper lip while Crabbe or some other idiot draped an arm around him and spouted nonsense into his ear and Lucius insisted he dance. Narcissa, to her credit, always partnered him, and never protested when he left early.

Snape had half a mind to skip the whole thing and hole up in his room, but this wasn't an ordinary celebration. This was a Death Eater revel and he'd better show up.

He shut down every thought of Miss Corlett, every thought of Minerva, every thought of himself. He didn't know who he was. He’d always been a chameleon, changing himself to become whatever it was people wanted, or expected him to be. And as he stopped at the front door of Malfoy Manor and closed his eyes he was one of them. And it wasn't even that hard.

A new servant was there to usher him inside, a young man he didn't recognise. He must've gone to Durmstrang, or had a tutor. Snape said nothing.

He stepped across the threshold into an enchanted forest, winding his way through a maze of ice-covered trees and sparkling fairy lights. Narcissa and the Hogwarts staff must’ve been on the same wavelength, but whether Narcissa had the same motives-whether this was a middle finger to the war-he couldn't say.

"Severus," said Narcissa, when he’d emerged from the maze. She was dressed in a green silk gown, a string of diamonds glittering around her neck, and her eyes were shrewd and wary in her thin, tired face. "So glad you could join us. Everyone's in the Great Hall."

She turned and led the way and it was all so formal, so...perfunctory. No sign of her usual warmth.

The hall was so magnificent Snape just stood in the doorway and soaked it all in. The Aurora Borealis snaked across the ceiling, the soft light flickering along the ice covered walls and the polished black floor, which reflected the room like a bottomless pool. Tall pillars of ice stood in every corner of the room, glowing from their own light. Had it not been for all the people he could've been in the Artic on some beautiful winter night, far away from everything. And in that moment he was a wide-eyed kid from the Muggle slum and he understood what they were fighting for.

The floor was a mess of people, Death Eater and high-society sympathisers alike, clustered in groups or dancing to the ten-piece orchestra perched on a raised platform at the far end of the hall. He recognized the song-a slow waltz by the wizarding composer Drozdova, he thought, and as well-played as he'd ever heard it-but he thought the cello player had a rather glazed look in his eyes, and they all looked rather spacey, now that he'd noticed. Like they'd just been Imperiused. Rather amusing, really. Lucius was classy that way.

His comrades, not so much. They'd been tramping through the manor like it was a military base, muddying the floor with their boots and roughing up the place, but they'd cleaned up and put on their good robes, all except Amycus, who hadn’t even bothered to change into dress shoes. He left a trail of mud behind him as he walked over to Alecto, visible only in the way it blocked the the light on the smooth floor, and when he’d reached her she smacked him in the arm and made him clear it away with his wand. Snape didn't usually give a shit what people wore, but he couldn't help but notice that she'd compensated for her brother's crudity by wearing the most ostentatious outfit she could think of, a green and gold sequined number that assaulted his eyeballs.

Narcissa raised a deadly eyebrow and shot her a scathing look over her wine glass. She could overlook Alecto's cruelty, perhaps, as long as it didn't effect her son, but she drew the line at tacky ball gowns.

"Alecto must be dedicated to her teaching job," she said, with a voice like an ice pick.

"How do you mean?"

"She seems to have lost track of time. Hallowe'en was two months ago."

Snape smirked. "I think I have permanent eye damage.”

Narcissa smiled slightly, but only with her mouth. Her eyes were as wary as ever. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She seemed anxious to get away, and Snape didn’t know why. Was it possible she still resented him? The thought was too terrible...he had precious few allies among the Death Eaters, in spite of his status, or maybe even because of it.

Alecto was watching him. Whether she knew he’d just been snarking on her or not he didn’t know, but she wasn’t smiling.

He stepped towards the crowd and as it parted for him he caught a glimpse of Miss Parkinson, who was holding a champagne glass in both hands, tapping it with one finger as she listened to Rololphus prattle on about something.

“Professor Snape,” she said in an animated voice, turning away from Rolophus, who broke away and started up a conversation with someone else.

Snape inclined his head to her. “Miss Parkinson.”

He glanced around the room. The only other student there was Draco, who was standing by the drinks table and staring off into space. They didn’t seem to have come as a couple. Someone must've invited her.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said.

"I've joined up, sir."

Her eyes were shining and her excitement was unsettling, jarring, like a photograph he'd seen once of a soft toy in the ruins of a bombed-out building. She searched his face, waiting for the recognition she'd always fought so hard for in school. But he was one of them and he was fine with it. Why wouldn't he be?

"We could always use recruits, I suppose. But your schoolwork must come first, do you understand? You'll be useless to them without it."

"Of course."

He glanced at Alecto, who was absorbed in conversation with Bellatrix, and lowered his voice.

"You'll want to associate yourself with the right people, if you wish to get ahead. Professor Carrow is something of an upstart. Draco can show you the ropes."

Miss Parkinson's smile faltered. "I suppose." She glanced at Draco, who was drinking alone beside a window and looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else. He was on thin ice, acting that way, but he supposed they'd make excuses for him, at least for awhile. And perhaps the boy could talk some sense into Miss Parkinson...but really, what did he care?

Bellatrix stepped towards them, followed by Alecto, who rested a hand on Miss Parkinson's shoulder. "Has she told you her good news?"

"She has," said Snape. "I suppose the midwives will start handing out recruitment pamphlets at birth before long."

Bellatrix nudged his arm. “Hark, who’s talking? You were what, sixteen, seventeen?”

“Eighteen,” murmured Snape.

"Now don’t you listen to them,” said Alecto, who still had her hand on Miss Parkinson's shoulder. “Talent like yours, you’ll have your Mark in a few months.”

Miss Parkinson smiled and glanced towards Bellatrix, who looked her up and down.

"We'll see," she said, voice neutral, eyes appraising. Snape supposed she'd set the girl some task for her intiation, they didn't Mark just anyone. And this was a good thing. They were an elite, and he was very near the top, high enough to crush everyone who'd ever looked down on him.

"If you'll excuse us," said Bellatrix. "I'd like a word with Snape."

Alecto nodded and struck up a conversation with Miss Parkinson, and Snape followed Bellatrix to a quiet corner of the hall, away from the crowd.

"What is it?" he said in a bored voice, scanning the crowd for more interesting company.

"You know what's in that vial, don't you? The one you took from that traitorous little bitch Warrington?"

Snape turned to face her. He was unnerved and she knew it. The corners of her lips turned up in a smile.

Snape smiled back. "You must've paid a fortune for it. But it'll all be worth it, I suppose?"

Bellatrix glanced at Narcissa, who was dancing with Lucius. "She didn't mean to be so careless," she said, her voice as close to earnest as he'd ever heard it. "If you were to give the poison back to me, the Dark Lord need not know how potent it is, do you understand?"

"And just what am I supposed to tell him, Bellatrix? He's not stupid, he knows it's no ordinary potion."

" _He's_ not stupid, but that doesn't mean Warrington wasn't. She might have simply misunderstood what it was, do you know what I mean?"

Snape sauntered over to the nearby drinks table without answering and took a long sip of cider. He had the poison, Bellatrix wanted it, the Dark Lord was too preoccupied with whatever it was he was looking for to care very much either way. The decision was easy.

"I'll think about it," he said when he'd walked back to Bellatrix.

Bellatrix leaned in closer. "Think of Cissy," she said. "She'll be the one who gets punished if the Dark Lord finds out. I know you wouldn't want anything to happen to her."

"It seems to me she brought it on herself."

Bellatrix ran a finger up his arm "Don't play games with me, Snape. Cissy practically _begged_ you for help last summer, and you couldn't stand the sight of her tears could you?" She lowered her voice to a whisper, her breath against his ear. "And quite the coincidence isn't it, that she knows where you live during the summer..."

Snape snatched his arm away. "What are you implying, Bellatrix?"

Bellatrix smirked and put her lips to his ear. "You wouldn't let her suffer."

Snape shivered in spite of himself, but it was the kind of shiver he felt when someone hummed too loudly in his classes. "Watch me."

Bellatrix pulled away and puckered up her lips, sliding a finger down his stomach. "Oh look, they made the timid little professor headmaster and he found his bollocks."

She poked him in the abdomen, just above the area in question, smirking. Snape kept his face bored, impassive, but his fingers gripped his glass so hard they slipped.

"Alright then," said Bellatrix, pulling her hand away. "You want to do this the hard way? I take it the the Dark Lord doesn't know about that Unbreakable Vow you made last summer?"

He didn't, but that particular bit of treachery would earn him another round Cruciatus, at most. He'd promised to kill the old man after all, and he'd done it. He sipped his cider with bored lips. "Really, Bellatrix, if that's the best you can do..."

He turned to walk away, but she wasn't finished with him yet.

"Be a shame if anything happened to your students."

What were the lives of a few children to a Death Eater? Only he couldn't understand why his chest tightened.

"Rather presumptious of you, to think that I care,” he said without turning around.

He went straight to the food table and filled up a plate, his go-to method of avoiding people at parties without looking stupid. He stared out the window as he ate and imagined he was sitting up on the moon, looking down at the earth from the cool white rock.

_"I sometimes thought about being an astronaut."_

_"Did you really? You would've made a good one."_

Snape shook her off with a twitch of the shoulder and stared out at the crowd to anchor himself. He was one of them. The room was magnifcent. This was _power_. He'd loved this, when he first joined up, that he was here, in this manor, surrounded by powerful people, respected by them even.

The drinks and the potions were flowing now, the voices louder and faster, the hall thrumming with energy. He was keyed up, excited almost. He stuffed a carmelized fig into his mouth and soaked it all in.

Mulciber sauntered over and clapped him on the back, nodding towards Avery, Lucius, and a few others. “Join us?”

Snape stuffed another fig into his mouth and followed them out of the hall, to a sitting room deeper in the manor.

Five people were standing in the centre of a small crowd, their hands tied behind their backs and cloths stuffed in their mouths. Mulciber undid the bindings on one of them, a man in his fifties by the looks of him, and pointed a wand to his head.

“ _Imperio_.”

The man got on all fours like an ass, braying and kicking. The crowd around him roared with laughter, all except Lucius, who'd always found Mulciber's methods rather boorish. Mulciber ignored him and soaked it in, subjecting him to ever more humiliating positions before lifting the curse. The man stood up on shaky legs and bolted for the door.

"Oh, you want to run do you? _Imperio!_ That's it motherfucker, run. "

The man lifted his arms to his sides like a sprinter and tore around the room, over and over again, his cheeks puffed out and face strained. Mulciber wouldn't lift the curse this time, and Snape watched the man with the curiosity of a scientist, wondering how long he'd last. Fascinating this, all these experiments in dark magic.

Rowle shoved someone else forward, a young woman.

" _Tarantellegra!_ " he bellowed. The woman danced like a badly handled marionette, frenzied and jerky, and one by one the others stepped foward to shoot hexes and jinxes at her.

"Get that bug out of your arse and come join us, Draco," said Bellatrix.

Draco set down his drink and got up off the sofa where he'd been sitting. Snape glanced at Lucius. His expression was hard to read, but he wasn't smiling.

" _Locomotor Mortis._ "

The woman's legs locked up and she toppled to the ground as laughter broke out around her. Draco turned and walked back to the sofa, scowling.

“I don't think you've had the pleasure yet, Miss Priss," said Bellatrix, gesturing to Miss Parkinson. "Unless you think you're too good for it?"

Miss Parkinson glanced at the watching crowd and stepped forward with a stretched-out smile that looked slightly forced and pointed her wand at the woman. Her mumbled incantation did nothing.

"You need to _feel_ it," said Bellatrix. "Look at her, look at that jumped-up bitch. She'd burn you at the stake if you gave her half a chance."

Miss Parkinson raised her wand again, but her second spell was as useless as the first.

"I'll do it," said Snape stepping into the circle. The thought came easily, everything was coming easily, like putting on old clothes and finding they still fit, that they were downright comfortable. Was this acting?

_Levicorpus_

The woman swung upwards as from an invisible hook and dangled in the air, scrabbling at her top to keep it falling to her shoulders.

Mulciber roared with laughter and clapped him on the back. "Just like old times, mate."

And it was. He was numb to everything, and it was better this way.

Rowle stepped into the circle, gesturing wildly, his eyes wide and excited. “Let’s do the rest of them then, shall we?"

Snape was back with the crowd as they cheered and raised their glasses, and the group of Muggles huddled near the entrance were pulled forward by Mulciber, bound by the invisible ropes he’d cast with his wand.

The crowd circled around them and Snape eyed the woman on the floor. What did he care? She'd mock him if she saw him on the street, she was just like everyone else.

She must've sensed him watching her, because her eyes flickered towards him, pleading, and there was something about it, something familiar, something he'd buried. He wanted to keep it there, didn't want it surfacing. He didn't want to fucking _feel_ anything. But he couldn't stop it.

What was this, that he was feeling? Who was he?

He couldn't stop himself. He pushed his wand up his sleeve with the pad of his thumb and raised his hand as though to scratch his face, turning his wrist until the tip of his wand pointed to Rowle’s chest. He knew the signs-the wide alert eyes, the reckless excitement. Rowle had taken venom-infused Felix, a strange, potent concoction that enhanced the euphoria at the expense of the luck.

" _Imperio._ "

Rowle was too fucked up to know he'd been cursed. His eyes went slack and he grabbed the woman by the arm, lifting her up off the floor and dragging her towards the entrance. The others barely even noticed. There wasn't anything remarkable about it.

Snape waited a few minutes and followed them, on the pretext of going to the lavoratory, ducking inside a minute or two before heading to the staircase, where he’d told Rowle to go. He Imperiused the woman and pointed his wand to Rowle’s chest.

“ _Stupefy_!”

Rowle slumped to the ground at the foot of the staircase. Snape pointed his wand to his head. “ _Obliviate._ ”

Rowle’s eyelids fluttered. Snape pointed his wand to him again.

“ _Confundo._ Graihagh Corlett has left the country. Her family has fled to America. There’s no point in looking for them.”

His eyelids fluttered and closed again, and Snape kicked him in the stomach and left him there. He’d come to in a few minutes and think he’d passed out.

He pointed his wand to the woman. _Out. And be quiet about it._

She walked to the door and slipped outside, Snape following behind her, but they weren't alone. Someone was retching into a juniper bush.

Draco raised his head and stared at them, eyes darting between Snape and the woman. _Dammit._ He should've Disillusioned himself; he doubted Draco would've stopped the woman escaping.

"What's going on-what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" snapped Snape. "I'm finishing her off."

Why was it so easy to lie, to keep his cover? Who was he, really? He jabbed his wand into the woman's back and marched her down the steps. He _could_ finish her off, if he felt like it. He could do anything he wanted. And part of him had never stopped loving it.

Draco's breathing was heavy and laboured, from the drinks maybe, or from fear. "You're disgusting."

Snape turned round to face him.

"I know."

Draco thrust a hand into the inside pocket of his robes, fumbling for his wand. He pointed it to Snape's chest, his hand surpringly steady given the circumstances.

"Really, Draco," said Snape, not even bothering to take his own wand from the woman's back. "I know you've been unwell lately, but they didn't tell me you were suicidal."

"I'm not-I could stop you if I wanted to."

The fool. His family was in enough trouble as it was, they didn’t need this idiocy. Snape glanced at the windows to make sure no one was watching and lowered his voice. "Put it down before someone sees. You're making a fool of yourself."

" _Stupe-_ "

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Snape caught the wand with the very tips of his fingers and threw it back to him. "Go inside and sober up. You're acting like a child."

He jabbed his wand into the woman's back and walked away, down the drive, all the way to the gates, too far away to be seen by Draco, or anyone else at the manor. Some distant branches rustled but there wasn't anyone around, as far as he could tell. Just a rabbit maybe, or a fox.

He raised his left arm lifted the curse off the woman. “Get as far away from here as you can. Don’t stop until you’ve reached the village.”

He needn’t have said anything, she was already halfway down the drive by the time he’d finished the sentence.

He watched her til she was out of sight and took the path at a run. He’d been gone a long time, for someone who’d just needed to take a piss.

Draco wasn't at the front door, and Rowle wasn't lying beside the stairs, so there was no one there to disturb him as he stood in the silence and cleared his mind, burying the part of himself that did stupid things like try and save people.

Three of the remaining Muggles were slumped on the sitting room floor, their faces disfigured from all the hexes and the jinxes that had been put on them. The middle-aged man had collapsed beneath a window.

Rowle prodded him with his foot. “Dead,” he crowed.

Snape could’ve saved him...but he'd chosen someone else...and the others, they were still alive, maybe he could...

Bellatrix raised her wand. She'd play with them awhile before finishing them off and the others would let her. He'd look strange if he tried Imperiusing someone again, something was bound to go wrong.

But none of that mattered anyway, he was being stupid. He watched without feeling anything.

He had a few drinks and some potions and wandered through the manor, away from all the people, from the screams sounding from the back room, but they were nothing, it didn't matter. His feet led him to the drawing room, where he slumped down in a high-backed chair and stared at the wall, away from the long table by the fireplace. Lucius was putting Draco to bed, any moment he’d come downstairs and they’d play another game of chess. Snape would lose on purpose this time, so he could go home and sleep.

He wondered if Lucius had any calming draughts in his cellar, he felt he could use one. He'd been a guest there so many times he'd lost count, he'd even lived there on and off in his late teens, he knew Lucius and Narcissa wouldn't mind if he popped down there to check. He opened the door and climbed down the stairs to the cool, quiet cellar, away from everything.

There was a loud grunting snore and Snape started. What the hell...?

“ _Lumos_.”

Blue-white light reflected off flasks and bottles and wet stone, until it reached the far corner of the room, where it illuminated two people huddled together under a thin blanket. Snape stepped closer to them.

An old man was sitting up sleeping, his arms wrapped around a young woman.

Ollivander and Miss Lovegood. But what was she doing here?

Snape Disillusioned himself and flashed the light over them to see if they’d been tied up, but their bindings had been cut loose. So they’d managed that much, but Snape there was no escaping that cellar. Lucius had thought of everything. He had to. If Ollivander escaped, Lucius would take the blame, and that would be it.

Ollivander gasped and shifted his position, drawing the blanket in tighter. Miss Lovegood stirred and shivered herself back to sleep. They were freezing, but he watched them without feeling anything.

Miss Lovegood stirred and stared at him with wide silver eyes that reflected the dim light of his wand.

“Are you a watcher wraith?

“I-what?”

“Oh you know, a spirit warden. They watch over people."

Snape slipped into his Black country twang, the way he did when he needed to disguise his voice.

“Ar,” he whispered.

"Oh good, I was hoping there would be one here." She glanced around the cellar. "Can you help us get out?"

"No."

"No, I suppose not, you're bound here." She shivered and huddled back down against Ollivander, clutching the blanket tight.

Snape stepped closer and examined it. He couldn’t give them a new one, everyone would think they’d stolen it, or somehow got hold of their wands. But if he made it just a bit thicker...

He tapped his wand to it and added a few more layers. Then he conjured two woolen hats.

The first hat he placed on Ollivander, the second on Miss Lovegood. She stirred again and reached up to touch it.

“Oh, thank you. It’s very cold down here, you know.”

“Better hide them hats in the morning,” he whispered, his voice gruff, thick.

“Oh we will,” whispered Miss Lovegood. She rested her head on Ollivander’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

Snape sat beside them with his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Graihagh administers potions and very awkwardly helps the midwife. When she's sure the couple is okay, she goes back to the Hog's Head with Remus, where she lays on her bed and thinks about Snape, sure he'll be alone and miserable over Christmas. Aberforth has been selling some of her potions so she has a bit of money saved up and is thinking of buying him a gift.


End file.
